


The Mortal Coil

by Jekaterina1126



Series: The Mortal Coil [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Death, Discussion of Mortality, F/F, Hermione Granger-centric, Implied/Referenced Character Death, POV Hermione Granger, Triwizard Champion Hermione Granger, True Love, Veela Folk Lore, underage romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-05-24 18:17:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 60,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14959688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jekaterina1126/pseuds/Jekaterina1126
Summary: Hermione couldn’t believe she had been so stupid. What a foolish and perfectly prideful thing to do. The brightest witch of her generation, gifted and sensible Hermione Granger, gave into peer pressure. She wasn’t going to. Not originally. Not until that bloody smirk. Now magically entangled in the Triwizard Tournament, Hermione must ensure her survival in the Wizarding World’s most dangerous game. But as her dreams become haunted by an omnipotent, mysterious force, the young witch must come to terms with her own mortality and learn to appreciate both life and love.





	1. That Bloody Smirk

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, and welcome to The Mortal Coil.
> 
> I only have a few notes before you begin. 
> 
> Firstly, this fanfiction's storyline runs parallel to the events of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. Therefore, some scenes from the book will be featured in this fanfiction, as well as paraphrased narrative sections and dialogue taken directly from the book. These sections belong to J.K. Rowling exclusively and I claim no ownership. I chose to do this for authenticity's sake; however, the majority of this fanfiction will be original writing and placed from Hermione Granger's perspective. 
> 
> Secondly, this fanfiction will discuss touchy topics, such as mortality and death. In a way, this fanfiction will be used as a vehicle to explore these concepts. If this does not interest you, no hard feelings. I hope you have a nice day. 
> 
> If you are interested, however, I encourage you to read on and contribute to the dialogue. Thoughts and criticism involving the characters, text, plot or storyline are welcome. 
> 
> Without further ado, I hope you enjoy the story,
> 
> Jekaterina

Hermione woke on Halloween with a scream. Heart racing, gasping for breath, she sat up, blankets clutched in a death grip between her fingers. A strange constriction tightened around her chest, making it hard to breathe. Tears welled in her eyes as she made a desperate attempt to regulate her breathing. Her nerves burned with white-hot pain; her skin chilled to ice, the cold creeping up her spine. Then, as if fleeing from the dawn, the pain retreated and her muscles relaxed.  
  
The tears fell from her eyes, slipping down her cheek as she looked about. The curtains were drawn over the four-poster bed. For a brief moment, Hermione wondered if anyone heard. From the silence and soft snores, it was safe to conclude a sound ‘no’. Her brain searched frantically for a reason behind the reaction. It couldn’t have been a heart attack. She was only fifteen, after all. A panic attack, perhaps? Hermione had not had one for years, not since her first year at Hogwarts, but the vague memory of a dream, something to do with a black figure, a dark glade, and the scent of lilacs and something akin to spring rain convinced her it might have been one. Perhaps conjured from that horrific lesson with Professor Moody, witnessing the Unforgivable Curses. The memory left as soon as it came and Hermione rose from bed, determined to forget.

She joined Harry and Ron a half hour later and found they were not the only student to rise early. The entrance hall boasted more bodies than Hermione had ever seen this early, all chattering and gossiping about the Goblet of Fire. She had almost forgotten, too concerned with her panic attack. But there the goblet sat, stationed on a three-legged stool, its blue and white flames dancing eagerly, hungrily awaited the names of those daring enough to enter the Triwizard Tournament. The goblet’s only line of defense was Dumbledore’s Age Line. The thin, gold circle had only a diameter of ten inches, but those ten inches stood in the way of every under-aged student’s aspirations of glory.

Hermione huffed at Ron’s wishful gaze. Honestly, it frustrated her - Ron’s irrational need for justification. She wished he could appreciate his own talents, his own skills, and opportunities. He was an excellent strategist, had a sound mind he unsoundly refused to use, passion, and determination most people lacked. Instead, he became overwhelmed with what he wasn’t: he wasn’t rich like Malfoy, he wasn’t famous like Harry, he wasn’t popular like his brothers, he wasn’t a good student like her - the list went on and on, and now he would never be school champion. Hermione was getting frustrated by the blinders he wore, and after her panic attack, she had less patience for his complaints than usual. Harry appeared the only sensible one among the boys. Or perhaps he was simply better at hiding his disappointment, but he at least wasn’t staring at the goblet like a heartbroken schoolboy.

“Anyone put their name in yet?” Ron asked a third-year girl eagerly.

“All the Durmstrang lot,” she replied. “But I haven’t seen anyone from Hogwarts yet.”

“Bet some of them put it in last night after we’d all gone to bed,” Harry mumbled. “I would’ve if it had been me…wouldn’t have wanted everyone watching. What if the goblet just gobbed you right back out again?” Hermione was about to comment; however, a laugh from behind them interrupted. Turning, she saw Fred, George, and Lee Jordan practically flying down the staircase, grinning like fools. Hermione cringed, realizing what was to come.

“Done it,” Fred said in a triumphant whisper to Harry, Ron, and Hermione. “Just taken it.”

“What?” Ron asked, his nose scrunching. It was a habit of his, she noticed. Hermione couldn’t say she hated it. Ron looked a bit like a rabbit, and she thought it adorable.

“The Aging Potion, dung brains,” Fred responded.

“One drop each,” George continued, rubbing his hands together, looking far too excited. “We only need to be a few months older.”

“We’re going to split the thousand Galleons between the three of us if one of us wins,” Lee jumped in, flashing them a white-toothed smile.

“I’m not sure this is going to work, you know,” Hermione finally spoke, “I’m sure Dumbledore will have thought of this.”

She should have known they would ignore her. All three were far too star-struck to even hear logic. Teacher’s pet Hermione Granger knew nothing of breaking rules, she thought spitefully, so why listen to her? It’s not like she had read about Age Lines. It wasn’t as if she knew there was a defining method incorporated in the Age Line to deduce someone’s age, and since physical age was too obvious she was sure Dumbledore would be prepared for aging potions. What the method of determination was, Hermione could only guess at. So, the bushy-haired witch held her tongue. She knew when her advice wasn’t wanted. “Ready?” Fred was practically hopping with excitement. “C’mon, then - I’ll go first -” He withdrew what Hermione could only assume was his submission to the goblet and walked right up to the line. He rocked on toes and Hermione thought, for a wild moment, he would resign. But sensibility was never a Weasley strong suit. Every eye was on him as he took that fateful leap over the Age Line. When nothing happened, Hermione gasped. It couldn’t be that simple! Surely Albus Dumbledore, the greatest wizard of their time, wouldn’t be fooled by a simple aging potion? George let out a triumphant cry and joined his brother beyond the line.

Their victory was short lived. With a sizzling sound, both boys were hurled from the goblet, landing with a painful popping noise ten feet away. It was only a moment later that Hermione realized the popping noise wasn’t their joints or bones, but a jinx that caused the twins to grow large, bushy, white beards. The entrance hall erupted with laughter. Hermione felt a smug smile cross her own lips as Fred and George joined the ululation.

“I did warn you,” Spinning on her toes, Hermione found Professor Dumbledore coming out of the Great Hall, eyes twinkling in amusement. “I suggest you both go up to Madam Pomfrey. She is already tending to Miss Fawcett, of Ravenclaw, and Mr. Summers, of Hufflepuff, both of whom decided to age themselves up a little too. Though I must say, neither of their beards is anything like as fine as yours.”

“I knew it!” Hermione whispered in victory, watching the twins head towards the hospital wing, accompanied by a chortling Lee Jordan. Her eyes darted to Harry and Ron. Both of their faces scrunched in confusion. She just sent them a small smile before following them into the Great Hall.

She was excited to learn of Angelina’s entrance. If any student could survive this competition it would be a Gryffindor. All the while, as Harry and Ron chatted about the tournament, Hermione found her thoughts returning to the Age Line. Three attempted aging potions had been thwarted by the line, and that was clear indication that physical age wasn’t the defining factor of admission. How could the Age Line decide if someone was of age or not if someone’s physical age was irrelevant? She pondered this all through breakfast until they left the Great Hall. As she, Harry and Ron passed the goblet once more, dreading another Care of Magical Creatures lesson with the Blast-Ended Skrewts, an idea struck.

“Memory,” she gasped, stopping dead in her tracks, staring in wonder at the Age Line.

“What?” Ron asked, scrunching his nose once more. “What’re you on about?”

“The Age Line!” Hermione said, excitedly. “It’s fascinating! Think about it: four people tried the same aging potion but to no effect! The Age Line knew they were underage, even with their bodies aged! It doesn’t depend on physical age - it depends on memory! All four people still remembered their age! A very strong memory charm must be incorporated with the Age Line!”

“Blimey!” Ron exclaimed, shoulders sagging. Of course, Hermione thought, the simple thrill she experienced from the discovery hadn’t thrilled her friends in the same manner. Harry seemed passively impressed, but the revelation sent Ron into a tantrum. “That’s not fair!”

“Ron,” Hermione began, slightly exasperated, “It’s not meant to be fair. It’s meant to keep under-aged wizards and witches out. It’s reinforcing the age limitation - the only logical part of this whole tournament, might I add!”

“It’s impossible! How are we supposed to get around that?!” Ron exclaimed.

“A memory charm to take away the memory and one to replace it with your new age, of course, however that is too dangerous and too advanced for anyone to even attempt! That. Is. The. Point!”

Suddenly the doors to the Great Hall swung open and the delegation from Beauxbatons entered from the grounds, all marching in two straight lines. A flash of memory struck an amused Hermione, remembering Ludwig Bemelmans’ Madeline: “They left the house at half past nine, in two straight lines in rain or shine - and the smallest one was Madeline.” She looked to the end of the line, expecting to see frizzled red hair, but instead saw a flicker of silver-gold, and crystal blue eyes. The girl from the night before, the one who asked for the bouillabaisse, was among the delegation, sashaying at the back of the line, like a lion surveying her pride. Hermione felt her face flush, a frown catching the corner of her lips. There was something off about that girl - she felt it the night before, as well, when the students from Beauxbatons arrived, shivering and huddled together, certainly in no straight line.

“I could do that!” Ron exclaimed loudly, eyes following the blond witch as she and the other Beauxbaton students lined up at the goblet, the fire consuming their names hungrily. She huffed at the redhead, rolling her eyes.

“No, you couldn’t, Ron,” she said firmly.

“It seems dangerous,” Harry admitted, turning to the Ron. “You saw what happened to Lockhart.”

“That’s different!” Ron insisted, “This one will only be temporary, right?”

“There’s no such thing as temporary memory charm, but there's a theoretical spell that might repair the memory if it’s small enough, but it's extremely risky!”

“How do you know so much, then?” Ron challenged, flushed. She noticed it was a natural defense mechanism with him - attacking others when he felt small. He appeared more touchy than usual, perhaps due to the French students watching their argument. She tried not to take it personally, though grew uncomfortable with the volume of his voice.

“I’ve read about them, of course!” She hissed, trying to keep her voice low. “Professor Flitwick has given me a few advanced charm books, and there’s no way you could pull it off!”

“Brightest witch of our year afraid to try, is she?” Ron scoffed, a scowl and a pout combining on his face to make a very unattractive expression. “Just because you’re scared doesn’t mean Harry and I are! We’d do it!”

“What?” Harry gaped, “Don’t drag me into this!”

“I never said I would do it! And you don’t even know the spell, Ronald!” Hermione hissed.

“And you do?!”

“Yes!” She exclaimed, instantly regretting raising her voice. All eyes were on her, including those crystal blue eyes looking down at her in amusement. Amusement?! What exactly did she find so amusing, Hermione wondered, flustered and thoroughly offended. Meeting those blue eyes, Hermione scowled, refusing to look away. At that moment, the blond witch sent her something - something that filled her with irrational anger.  
  
A smirk.  
  
She bloody smirked.  
  
That little Barbie doll had the nerve, the utter gall, to smirk at her! Hermione had been smirked at before. Malfoy practically had his trademarked, but the blond’s smirk was like nothing she had ever seen. The blond simply rolled her eyes as she stepped over the Age Line, submitting her name with a flourish. The rest of the Beauxbatons students were led from the hall, back towards the grounds. Indignation filled her and with a huff she turned back to Ron, who had said something, scribbling ink across a piece of parchment.

“What did you say?”

“Prove it!” Ron exclaimed, holding out the parchment. On it, in shaky handwriting, read _Hermione Granger - Hogwarts_.

“Are you mental?!” she shrieked, “I don’t want to enter!”

“Want to - or can’t?!” Ron challenged. “You act smarter than everyone, Hermione, so why not prove it?”

“What would this solve, Ronald? I’m not going to attempt a spell I’ve never used and submit my name to this awful tournament just to prove I’m right!”

“I knew it,” he finally said, crossing his arms. “You’re bluffing. You just like to sound smart so you pushed that drivel about the Age Line. You’re not willing to put it to the test.”

Hermione’s head snapped around at the sound of uncontrollable giggling. The blond witch had lingered in the hall standing with three other girls and a boy, watching her and Ron’s exchange. She heard them whisper something, only catching one word in every four. They quickly switched to French, seeing Hermione’s eyes.

“How silly,” the boy said in French, leaning towards the others, not bothering to monitor his voice. “Children bickering in the middle of the hall.”

“Is that little girl entering?”

“Of course not,” the blond witch responded. “This is no game for babies.”

“Babies?!” Hermione scoffed, eyebrows furrowed at the French students. They seemed surprised, caught off guard by the fact Hermione understood them. They even looked a little ashamed. Not the blond, however. She simply raised an eyebrow, returning Hermione’s gaze.

“Oui. Bebes,” she finished, that bloody smirk returning to her lips. Hermione huffed, almost stomping her foot in frustration. Instead, she snatched the parchment from Ron’s baffled hand and saw his eyes grow wide.

“Wait, Hermione, I didn’t mean-”

“Shut up, Ronald Weasley!” she hissed, turning to the Goblet of Fire. For a brief moment, her rational mind protested. “This is crazy,” it said. “You’ve only read the theory, never actually tried it before! A professor could walk in from breakfast at any moment, you’re going to be late for class, you could make a mess of your memories, or worse, get expelled!” A thousand reasonable thoughts floated in her mind. The only thought that surged forward, however, was that bloody smirk. A baby, was she? She was the brightest witch of her generation, and by Merlin, she would prove it and wipe that smirk right from blondie’s pretty face.  
  
With a sigh to calm her nerves, Hermione pointed her vinewood wand to her own forehead, the tip cool against her skin. It warmed, sensing her intention. There was a sudden pulse of fear but she threw it aside as she whispered, “Obliviate,” concentrating as hard as she could on her own age: fifteen. A wave of fog rolled over her mind and for a moment it was left blank. She couldn’t hear Harry yell her name, or Ron rushing to keep him back. She couldn’t hear heels clicking up behind her, she couldn’t hear the gasps of the other students. Instead, all she heard was her own voice inside her head. Implantantur Memoriae. She knew the words, knew she was supposed to focus on the memory she wished to implant. With a surge of willpower, Hermione whispered, “Implantantur Memoriae,” and thought very hard on what would happen on her seventeenth birthday. Harry and Ron, older than they appeared now entered her vision, both scruffy with facial hair, waving a birthday cake under her nose. The twins playing exploding snaps in the corner. Her mother and father smiling, holding a small gift. Mr. Weasley trying to operate the blender in her parent’s kitchen and Mrs. Weasley slapping his hands away. People all around wished her the best as she came of age and sang her the birthday song. She stood there awkwardly, never liking to be sung to. She smiled and blew out her candles. Raising her eyes, she was met with silver-blond hair and a crystal blue gaze.  
  
Blue eyes scanned her face, one hand gripping her shoulders, the other gripping her wand arm. For a moment Hermione simply stared at the woman, dazed by the fog rolling across her mind. Then her eyes fell to the slip of parchment in her hands. Blankly, she stepped over the Age Line and watched as the Goblet of Fire consumed her name. She stumbled back, and the blond witch caught her. She heard Harry and Ron rush to meet her, but she held out her hand.  
  
“Not yet,” she gasped, trying to keep her memories straight in her head. She couldn’t look at them. She knew seeing the boys youthful and childish would rattle her sensitive mind. She had to remember the proper spell - the one to repair her memories. It, in itself, was a theory, but one Hermione hoped would work. She took up her vinewood wand once again. The blond almost stopped her, but Hermione cast her a hard glare, shaking her head. “Just…hold me up, will you?” She saw an argument dancing at the woman’s lips and the troubled look on her face. Hermione spitefully wandered if she was bothered, having a child cling to her so. But the woman’s hold tightened, giving her some comfort she wouldn’t collapse. Hermione brought her wand to her forehead once more and searched her memories, as jumbled as they were, piecing together the spell, letter by letter.

“Memoria reparare,” the blond whispered in her ear, tightening her grip.  
  
“Right,” Hermione breathed, trying to ignore the heat rising in her cheeks, feeling the woman’s breath on her skin. “Memoria reparare,” she repeated, and everything went dark.  
Many things played through her mind. She saw her fourth birthday party, a cool September day in 1983 when her grandmother presented her with her first book: Dr. Seuss’ Green Eggs and Ham. She saw children laughing at her outside her primary school, throwing acorns into her hair as she clutched books tightly to her chest. She saw Professor McGonagall sitting in her living room, morphing into a cat before her very eyes. She changed back into an old woman before lighting the fire in the hearth, saying Hermione would learn to do the same. She saw the Great Hall and heard the sorting hat yell, “GRYFFINDOR!” Her heart beat like a drum in her ears, hearing the troll enter the girls bathroom - felt panic as her face grew cat fur and a bushy tail sprung from beneath her skirt - the chilled metal of the time turner in her hands - the absolute awe of seeing Harry summon a corporeal Patronus - and finally, a pair of crystal blue eyes staring down at her.

She heard noises, a verbal spat of some sort. She vaguely recognized the Scottish tone but had never heard them so high pitched. She heard a calmer, dreamy voice attempting to assure and comfort, but to no avail.  
  
“This is Flitwick’s fault! Giving the girl advanced charm spell books!”  
  
“You admitted yourself, Minerva,” the calm, smooth voice responded, sounding almost amused, “to have encouraged Miss Granger to steeper feats of knowledge. You, after all, were the one to recommend her for the time turner last year.”  
  
“Well,” Professor McGonagall sputtered, “that isn't the same! At any rate, Mr. Weasley should not have provoked her!”  
  
“I'm afraid the only one to blame, Minerva, is Miss Granger herself.”  
  
“He's right, professor,” she mumbled, “I'm the one who couldn't control my foolish pride.”  
  
“Miss Granger!” She heard the professor rush to her bedside but she didn't want to open her eyes. She didn't want to see the disappointment on the older woman's face. “Foolish indeed! A memory charm?! Two of them?!”  
  
“Three, I believe,” she admitted, though unwillingly so.  
  
“What possessed you do such a thing?!” The last thing that passed through her mind's eye was a pair of pink lips and a smirk that sent irrational waves of ire crashing through her. Her eyes snapped open. She was in the hospital wing, staring up at the arching stone ceiling, Professor McGonagall’s tight-lipped expression looming above her. Just as she expected there were thin lines of disapproval creasing her wrinkled face, but Hermione could not help but notice concern flickering in her eyes.  
  
“I...Ron, I suppose. He was, as you said, goading me on. I knew what I was doing, knew he was just being childish, trying to look impressive. I shouldn't have tried to play the know-it-all.”  
  
“No, you should not have!” McGonagall exclaimed, but Dumbledore stepped forward, placing a firm hand on her shoulder.  
  
“I believe the lecture can wait, Minerva. Miss Granger, how old are you?” She paused at the question, eyes staring blankly at Professor Dumbledore. Seventeen, she thought, but knew that was wrong. She knew it now. She still remembered bits of the birthday party imagined in her mind, with an older, more rugged Harry and an older Ron, far taller than either of them. But this was a fantasy, invented to fool the Age Line. Taking a deep breath, she sighed before responding.  
  
“Fifteen.” She relaxing when the Headmaster nodded.  
  
“Well done, Miss Granger. Not many wizards could boast such an accomplishment. How did you pass the Age Line, might I ask? Mr. Weasley and Mr. Potter were only able to tell it was a memory charm.”  
  
“Three,” McGonagall repeated tersely, and Hermione knew she would have a time of earning the professor's trust once more.  
  
“I...obliviated the memory I was fifteen and to trick the goblet I implanted memories of my seventeenth birthday, making the Age Line believe I was of age. Then, after putting my name in-” Hermione froze, shooting to sit up in her bed. “Dear Merlin, I put my name into the Goblet of Fire!” She shrieked, “I am going to strangle that little French tart!”  
  
“French tart?” McGonagall repeated in bewilderment.  
  
“I assume you refer to Miss Delacour, of Beauxbatons,” Dumbledore smiled, his eyes twinkling in amusement. “She escorted you here, with Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley.”  
  
“Yes, well,” Hermione felt her face flush, rushing to continue her explanation. “After I put my name in I used a rather questionable memory charm I read a research paper on a few days back. It only had a 70% response rate, but I suspected that was because of a fallibility in method. Though since I'm in the hospital wing...I'm afraid to ask if it worked.”

“Spectacularly, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore answered, a smile touching his lips, “though I’m remorseful to have missed what sort of beard you would have grown. With your vivacious hair, it would have been just as spectacular, I'm sure.” Hermione couldn't help but grin, though her amusement was short lived.  
  
“Spectacular?!” McGonagall explained, glaring at Dumbledore. “She's been unconscious for hours!”  
  
“Oh, no!” Hermione said, attempting to jump out of bed, “My lessons! I've missed two already!”  
  
“Not so fast, Granger!” Madame Pomfrey screamed, appearing out of nowhere, pushing the witch back into bed. “You are not to move for another hour! And take this to sleep! Most like your memories still need time to sort themselves out. Dreamless sleep will do you wonders.”  
  
“Thank you, Madame Pomfrey, “ Professor Dumbledore smiled, “And thank you, Miss Granger,” he set a gentle hand on her head, patting Hermione almost affectionately. “It seems this day, you have taught me something.” She flushed at the admission and felt a strange swell of pride erupt in her chest. “I must go correct the Age Line, as you have shown a strong weakness in its defense. Feel better.” Once the headmaster left Professor McGonagall moved to sit at Hermione’s bedside.  
  
“Sleep, child,” she instructed, pointing to Madame Pomfrey’s sleeping draught. “I’ll be here when you wake.”  
  
“I’m sorry, Professor,” Hermione muttered, fiddling with the cup in her hands.  
  
“Nothing to be done now,” McGonagall sighed, but moved a hand to hold her own. “Rest. With luck, you’ll feel better before the feast tonight.”  
  
With a small smile, Hermione drank the sleeping draught, falling into a dreamless slumber. After the panic of her forgotten nightmare, her peaceful rest seemed divine. Memories flashed before her eyes, playing like a film for her amusement. When she woke, she found Professor McGonagall glaring sharply across her bed at Harry and Ron, who nervously stood a good distance away from the Scottish witch.

“Hi,” she rasped, voice hoarse from sleep.  
  
“Hermione!” Both boys exclaimed, rushing to her bed, ignoring McGonagall’s glare.

“Merlin’s beard, Hermione!” Ron exclaimed, “I didn’t want you to - I didn’t mean-”

“It’s fine, Ron,” she smiled, taking his hand in hers. His jaw was clenched tightly, face flushed as red as his hair.

“But it’s my fault-”

“No, it isn’t,” Hermione interrupted, giving his hand a squeeze.

“Debatable,” McGonagall muttered hotly, but Hermione ignored her, sitting up in bed.

“Have I missed the feast?” she asked, hoping to divert McGonagall’s heated stare.

“No,” she answered, standing from her chair. “Though you might want to hurry if you wish to attend. I’m afraid I must take my leave. If there are any further complications with your memory, please inform me immediately.”

“I will, Professor,” she nodded. Hermione almost laughed as Harry and Ron visibly relaxed as McGonagall took her leave.

“Blimey,” Ron exclaimed, withdrawing his hand from Hermione’s. “Thought she’d maul us!”

“How are you feeling?” Harry asked as Hermione stood, feeling a bit uncertain on her feet.

“Foolish,” she confessed. “That was a childish, dangerous and completely juvenile thing to do.” Like a baby, she thought spitefully.

“But it was wicked!” Ron grinned encouragingly, and Hermione felt that sense of pride once more. “You fooled the Age Line! Reckon you could do it again?! Get my name in?”

“Dumbledore has already mended that little loophole, I think,” Hermione confessed. “He was here earlier.”

“Did you get in trouble?” Ron asked, cringing. She could tell he felt guilty. It was a nice change, though she wished it hadn’t taken three memory charms and a visit to the Hospital Wing to achieve.

“No, he simply wanted to know how I got passed and regretted not seeing what my bushy beard would look like.” All three laughed at that and the mood felt lighter than it had all day.

Packing up her things and accepting one more sleeping draught from Madame Pomfrey for later that night, Harry, Ron, and Hermione made their way down to the Great Hall. It didn’t take long for her to notice the odd looks, people whispering behind their hands. As soon as they made it to Gryffindor table Fred and George jumped from their seats, rushing towards her.

“We saw them bring you into the Hospital Wing when we were getting our beards trimmed!” Fred exclaimed, a grin on his face.

“Did you do it?” George asked.

“Did you get your name into the Goblet of Fire?” Fred continued.

“I’d rather not think about it,” Hermione cringed, “I’ll be happy when this whole sordid affair is good and done.”

“So you did?!” they exclaimed, eyes wide.

“Yeah!” Ron answered, grinning from ear to ear. “She did! Shame I didn’t give her my name, too!” Fred and George gapped for a moment before throwing themselves down at her feet. She jumped when they knelt in front of her.

“We bow to your brilliance!” George exclaimed, causing the surrounding Gryffindors to laugh.

“Please forgive our ignorance!” Fred continued.

“We bow down! Bow before the Breaker of Rules! All hail the new Queen!” George exclaimed, jumping to his feet. Together, Fred and George walked behind Hermione and, before she could protest, she was hoisted into the air.

“Boys!” She shrieked, pushing down her pleated skirt as she sat on their shoulders, each supporting a leg. They were kind enough to ensure her decency was preserved as they marched her up the Gryffindor table.

“All hail the Queen!” They yelled, to the cheers and jeers of Gryffindor House.

“All Hail!” Half the table exclaimed, the other half looked positively perplexed. She heard Harry and Ron joining in and felt her face flush bright red. This only went on for a short time. She was eventually allowed to dismount from the twin’s shoulders. She slapped their shoulders furiously, though felt honored to have been included in the joke for once. Her cheeks didn’t pale to a normal color until everyone was distracted with copious amounts of food. Thankfully, Harry and Ron diverted questions of her earlier foolishness. For a brief moment, she could just enjoy the feast until the golden plates vanished and Dumbledore stood.

“Hermione,” Ron whispered, nudging her arm. “Hermione, what if you’re chosen?” He sounded slightly envious but she could tell he was more worried for her than jealous or excited.

“Ron, most every seventh year has entered their name. I highly doubt a fourth year would be chosen in such company,” she responded, though felt a jolt of fear. What if? Hermione was sure Dumbledore wouldn’t allow it. She had nothing to fear. Not only that, she was positive there were competitors better qualified to overshadow her name. This was her only comfort as Dumbledore began to speak.

“Well, the goblet is almost ready to make its decision,” he began, “I estimate that it requires one more minute. Now, when the champions’ names are called, I would ask them please to come up to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through into the next chamber, where they will be receiving their first instructions.” With a majestic wave of his wand, all the candles except those inside the pumpkins were extinguished, setting the ambiance. The Goblet of Fire seemed much larger as the candlelight retreated, much more intimidating, the blue and white fire raging widely.  
  
“Any second,” Lee Jordan whispered, three seats away.

The goblet suddenly breathed red flame, sparks shooting from the cup. A tongue of flame whipped into the air, a charred piece of parchment spat from its mouth. The room gasped as Dumbledore caught the parchment in one hand and held it at arm's length to read.

“The champion for Durmstrang,” he announced, his soft voice booming through the great hall, “will be Viktor Krum.”

“No surprises there!” Ron yelled. Thunderous applause was met by the announcement. Hermione saw Viktor Krum rise from the Slytherin table, stomping up to the staff table before disappearing into the side room. Hermione heard Karkaroff yelling over the roaring hall but the raging crowd quieted as the goblet turned red once more. The second piece of parchment was ejected from the flame.

“The champion for Beauxbatons,” announced Dumbledore, “is Fleur Delacour!”

“It’s her, Ron!” Harry shouted over the applause. Hermione followed his pointed finger, her eyes growing wide. It was the French witch from earlier, shaking her silver-blond hair as she gracefully sashayed between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables. With her nose in the air, this Fleur Delacour presented a triumphant smirk to the hall.

“What a pompous, self-satisfied, little-”

“Beauty,” Ron finished for her, eyes dazed as she walked by. Hermione frowned, elbowing him in the ribs. “Ow! Watch it, Hermione!” He whined, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. All she wanted at that moment was her warm four poster bed and that sleeping draught in the pocket of her robes.

When Fleur Delacour vanished into the side chamber the hall fell into still silence, the potential energy of the room palpable. Fred and George grinned at her, giving her a thumbs up. She shook her head at the twins but felt her stomach jump into her chest as the Goblet of Fire burst into its red flames. Hermione looked away, eyes fixated on the stone floor. She repeated all of her perfectly logical reasons, trying to comfort herself, as she heard the goblet choose the final contestant for the Triwizard Tournament. She felt Harry take her hand, entwining their fingers. She gave him a small smile before Dumbledore’s voice echoed down the hall.

“The Hogwarts champion,” he called, his voice hesitant. There was a small pause, but as he announced the champion, an icy chill seeped into her body, “is Hermione Granger.”

There was no applause. The only sound she heard was a gasp from the staff table. Tears welled in her eyes, still fixated on the stone floor. Harry tightened his hold and her eyes found his green stare. Even Ron, who had been so excited at the prospect of competing, looked horrified. She finally let her eyes sweep across the hall. Though confused, the students from Beauxbaton and Durmstrang could tell something was wrong. The Hogwarts students simply stared, shocked, at the Gryffindor table.

“Miss Granger,” Dumbledore said, not unkindly, “Please, join the other champions.” Taking a deep breath, gathering every shred of courage she possessed, she whirled around, standing from the Gryffindor table. If the visiting schools hadn’t been confused before, they were now. The students watched her inch towards the staff table with scrunched faces, whispering to the Hogwarts students for answers. Her loafers tapped audibly on the stone floor until she came level with Professor Dumbledore. Professor McGonagall stood at his side, holding the piece of charred parchment with Ron’s scribbled handwriting. She looked beyond horrified. The Scottish woman looked just about ready to fight the entire hall on the matter but she kept her silence as Dumbledore smiled down at Hermione, gesturing her towards the side chamber. On shaking legs, she made her way to the door under the scrutinizing gaze of Madame Maxime and Karkaroff. Her mind tried to decide between a numb blankness or a frenzied panic. Before it could decide, Hermione joined the other champions.

The chamber held a small, roaring fire. There were a few chairs but both Fleur Delacour and Viktor Krum remained on their feet, standing on opposite sides of the room. Both Viktor’s dark gaze and Fleur’s crystal blue eyes looked up at her entrance, puzzled. The impulse to run filled every nerve she had, hands twitching, especially as Fleur’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. Instead, she walked over the chair furthest away from either champion, sitting to calm her nerves.

“This isn’t happening,” she tried convincing herself, burying her face in her hands. “This absolutely isn’t bloody real.”

“Where is ze ‘Ogwart’s champion?” Fleur asked but, by the tone of her voice, Hermione suspected she already guessed the answer. Raising her head she saw the blond witch’s arms crossed, a thin eyebrow raised accusingly. Krum simply watched in confusion. “Merde!” Fleur exclaimed when Hermione simply glared at her, “You’re just a-”

“Baby, yes!” Hermione exclaimed, jumping to her feet. “You’ve made your opinion perfectly clear!”

“But the Age Line,” Krum started, scrunching his face in confusion. Before she could answer the door opened once more.

“Harry?” She gasped, rushing to him. “Did Dumbledore send you?” For one glorious moment, she breathed a sigh of relief. “Will there be a redraw? Oh, I just knew they wouldn’t let me compete! It would be preposterous, wouldn’t it?” She laughed, but Harry didn’t join her. In fact. He looked white as a sheet. Her smile faded. “Harry?”

Ludo Bagman burst into the chamber and clapped a hand over Harry’s shoulder, pushing him in the room. Hermione was pushed back as well, right into Fleur Delacour. She felt hands at her waist and gasped, jumping away. She still felt the tingles up her spine, cheeks flushing at the smirk catching the edge of Fleur’s lips.

“Extraordinary!” Bagman continued as Hermione fled to Harry’s side, glaring at the blonde’s amusement. “Absolutely extraordinary! Gentlemen…and ladies, of course. May I introduce - incredible though it may seem - the fourth Triwizard champion?”

“What?!” Hermione exclaimed, turning to face the wizard in question. “Harry?!”

“I didn’t!” He said, grabbing her shoulders. “I didn’t, Hermione, I didn’t put my name in!”

“Wait,” Bagman interrupted, shaking a finger at her, “How old are you?”

“Fifteen,” Hermione answered, “We need to speak with Professor Dumbledore! Harry and I - we’re not old enough to compete!”

“Well…it is amazing,” Bagman drawled, rubbing his chin. “But, as you know, the age restriction was only imposed this year as an extra safety measure. And as your names came out of the goblet…I mean, I don’t think there can be any ducking out at this stage…It’s down in the rules, you’re obliged…You’ll just have to do the best you-”

The door burst open once more and a large group of people charged into the chamber. Professor Dumbledore, Mr. Crouch, Professor Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, Professor McGonagall, and Professor Snape clambered into the room. Immediately, McGonagall rushed towards Hermione.

“Are you alright, dear?” She asked but before Hermione could answer Fleur Delacour marched up to her headmistress and exclaimed,

“Madame Maxime! Zey are saying zese children are going to compete!” Harry turned to Hermione and mouthed, “Children?!” angrily. All Hermione could do give him a sympathetic look before Madame Maxime’s booming voice began her protests. Karkaroff joined in, claiming it was unfair to have two Hogwarts champions, but all Hermione wanted was to find a way out of this hullabaloo.

“We were under the impression that your Age Line would keep out younger contestants, Dumbledore!” Karkaroff exclaimed.

“Apparently not,” Snape snipped, eyes darting to Hermione. “Some at this school believe they can operate above the law.” Her jaw clenched at the way he seemed to relish the insult.

“What is that suppose to mean?” Madame Maxime demanded.

“Earlier today, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore began, gesturing to Hermione, “Found a way to fool my age line.”

“So it was this girl?!” Karkaroff looked furious and amused at the same time, “This girl outwitted the great Dumbledore?!”

“Miss Granger is one of this school’s brightest students!” Professor McGonagall exclaimed, and Hermione felt a rushing sense of gratitude. She knew the transfiguration professor would still be disappointed by her actions, but to know she was still on Hermione’s side meant more than anything. “She was the only one to deduce a fault in the Age Line!”

“Yes, and zis little girl ‘elped her little friends, too, it would seem!” Madame Maxime exclaimed, throwing a large hand in the air. “Zis is most unfair, Dumbly-dorr!”

“She did not, Madame.” Hermione’s attention shot to Fleur Delacour, eyes wide as the blond turned to face the giant Headmistress.

“Fleur?” Madame Maxime questioned, “What is the meaning of zis?” She finished in French, looking as if the girl was being insubordinate simply for speaking.

“I was zere,” Fleur confessed, blue eyes flickering to Hermione for the briefest of moments before returning to address the room. “I was standing beside ‘er when she gave ‘er name. Zere was only one.”

Hermione could only stare, baffled. For one second, she wondered if she misjudged Fleur Delacour. The last thing she expected was the blonde to come to her defense, to bear witness to whatever innocence Hermione could claim.

“And Miss Granger has been in the infirmary since this morning,” Professor McGonagall chimed in with a decisive nod. Fleur’s eyes returned to Hermione, meeting her bewildered gaze. Fleur's eyes flitted over Hermione, from head to heel, before rolling away, another smirk tugging at her lips. What was she on about now?! Looking at her like some insect! Heat rose in Hermione's cheeks once more and she briefly wondered if the constant blood rush would have permanent damage.

“We all know, at least, of Potter’s guilt,” Snape began, shifting targets. Hermione moved closer to Harry, wrapping her arm around his. He responded by clasping a hand over hers, fingers tightening as Snape continued. “Potter’s been crossing lines ever since he arrived here-”

“Thank you, Severus,” Dumbledore interrupted firmly, leaving a disgruntled potions master. Harry reaffirmed for everyone there that he did not submit his name to the Goblet of Fire, and the bickering continued until Karkaroff turned to the Ministry representatives.

“Mr. Crouch…Mr. Bagman,” Karkaroff began, standing behind Krum, placing a fatherly hand on his shoulder. “You are our - er - objective judges. Surely you will agree that this is most irregular?” Bagman gave a laugh, trying to appear relaxed while Mr. Crouch stood by the fireplace, like a stone statue. He, for the first time, spoke.

“We must follow the rules, and the rules state clearly that those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the tournament.”

“Well, Barty knows the rule book back to front,” Bagman commented, as though the matter was closed. Karkaroff wasn’t happy at all to hear this, making demands and threatening to leave. Mad-Eye Moody entered the room, calling him on his bluff.

“You can’t leave your champion now. He’s got to compete. They’ve all got to compete.” Hermione’s hope plummeted to the bottom of her stomach, sitting there like a rock.

“Binding magical contract, like Dumbledore said. Convenient, eh?” Her grip tightened around Harry’s arm at the insinuation.

“Convenient?” asked Karkaroff. “I’m afraid I don’t understand you, Moody.” But Hermione did.

“Don’t you?” Moody said quietly, “ It’s very simple, Karkaroff. Someone put Potter’s name in that goblet knowing he’d have to compete if it came out.”

“Evidently, someone ‘oo wished to give ‘Ogwarts two bites at ze apple!” Madame Maxime jumped in.

“I quite agree, Madame Maxime,” said Karkaroff, bowing to her. “I shall be lodging complaints with the Ministry of Magic and the International Confederation of Wizard-”

“If anyone’s got reason to complain, it’s Potter,” growled Moody, “but…funny thing…I don’t hear him saying a word…”

“Why should ‘e complain?” Fleur exclaimed, stamping her foot. “‘E ‘as ze chance to compete, ‘asn’t ‘e? We ‘ave all been ‘oping to be chosen for weeks and weeks! Ze honor for our schools! A thousand Galleons in prize money - zis is a chance many would die for!”

“Harry is not one of them!” Hermione cried out. “Just because you’re all willing to die for a little attention and glory doesn’t mean Harry is!”

“Says ze little girl who ‘ad to prove she’s better zen everyone else!” Fleur hissed, hitting Hermione where she knew it would hurt. In that instant she regretted ever thinking a shred of decency existed in that slim frame, eyes burning as she returned Fleur’s stare with as much hate and anger as she could.

“Maybe someone’s hoping Potter is going to die for it,” Moody said, interrupting their glaring contest. Ludo Bagman looked aghast, bouncing nervously up and down on his feet.

“Moody, old man…what a thing to say!”

“We all know Professor Moody considers the morning wasted if he hasn’t discovered six plots to murder him before lunchtime,” Karkaroff scuffed, “Apparently he is now teaching his students to fear assassination too.” Hermione couldn’t help but stiffen. If any student should learn that lesson, it was Harry Potter. She, herself, had to save him on a number of occasions, and that wasn’t even the tip of the ice burg.

“Imagining things, am I?” growled Moody. “Seeing things, eh? It was a skilled witch or wizard who put the boy’s name in that goblet…”

“Ah, what evidence is zere of zat?” said Madame Maxime, throwing up her huge hands.

“Because they hoodwinked a very powerful magical object!” exclaimed Moody, and Hermione suddenly realized where this was going.

“There are only three schools that have ever participated in the Triwizard tournament,” she voiced, eyes staring wide at Moody. He shifted his attention to her, his electric blue eye roaming her face. She swallowed a nerves sputter and continued, “I read it in Hogwarts: A History. How are there four champions if there are only three schools? It…had to have been a Confundus Charm, but even then…No seventh year, let alone a fourth year, could do such a thing. And if Harry was in his own category under a false school-”

“It ensured he would be chosen,” Moody finished, giving the girl an ugly smile. “Well done, Miss Granger. Quite the mind on this one, Dumbledore.”

“You seem to have given this a great deal of thought, Moody,” Karkaroff said coldly, “and a very ingenious theory by this girl - though of course, I heard you recently got it in your head that one of your birthday presents contained a cunningly disguised basilisk egg, and smashed it to pieces before realizing it was a carriage clock. So you’ll understand if we don’t take you entirely seriously…”

“It’s my job to think the way Dark Wizards do, Karkaroff - as you ought to remember…”

“Alastor!” Dumbledore said, warningly. Mad-Eye gritted his teeth but said nothing more.

“It seems to me,” Dumbledore began, “No matter how this situation arose, Miss. Granger and Mr. Potter have been chosen to compete. This, therefore, they will do…”

“Ah, but Dumbly-dorr-”

“My dear Madame Maxime, if you have an alternative, I would be delighted to hear it.” When no response came Ludo Bagman nodded, excitedly addressing the four champions.

“Well, shall we crack on, then? Got to give our champions their instructions, haven’t we? Barty, want to do the honors?”

“Yes,” Crouch said, snapping out of his reverie. “Instructions. Yes…the first task…”

Hermione’s eyes flickered to Fleur Delacour only to find her staring again. The blond continued her irritating trend of flashing Hermione that damnable smirk, throwing in a wink for good measure before Fleur redirected her blue eyes to Mr. Crouch.

“The first task is designed to test your daring,” he told Hermione, Harry, Fleur, and Viktor, “so we are not going to be telling you what it is. Courage in the face of the unknown is an important quality in a wizard…very important…

“The first task will take place on November the twenty-fourth, in front of the other students and the panel of judges.

“The champions are not permitted to ask for or accept help of any kind from their teachers to complete the tasks in the tournament. The champions will face the first challenge armed only with their wands. They will receive information about the second task when the first is over. Owing to the demanding and time-consuming nature of the tournament, the champions are exempted from end-of-term tests-”

“What?!” Hermione gasped, feeling rather foolish when she realized she said it out loud. Professor McGonagall simply patted her on the shoulder, shaking her head. Mr. Crouch chose to ignore this, it seemed, turning to Dumbledore.

“I think that’s all, is it, Albus?”

“I think so,” Dumbledore said, eying Mr. Crouch with mild concern. Hermione could hardly muster any sympathy for the man, having been so insensitive to the need of poor Winky at the Quidditch World Cup. After inviting all of the other judges for a nightcap, everyone began moving towards the door.

Madame Maxime wrapped an arm around Fleur’s shoulders, leading her swiftly from the room. As she passed, Fleur sent Hermione a smile, saying, “Au revoir, ma petite.”

“Why you little-” Harry held her back as Fleur walked passed. Hermione huffed, shaking Harry’s hold.

“French tart, indeed,” Professor McGonagall muttered as Dumbledore approached the pair of fourth years.

“Harry, Hermione,” he said, smiling at both of them. “I am sure Gryffindor is waiting to celebrate with you, and it would be a shame to deprive them of this excellent excuse to make a deal of mess and noise.” With a nod, they left together, arms still locked. After a while of walking in silence, Hermione released her death grip on Harry’s arm.

“Harry-”

“I didn’t do it!” He said sharply, almost desperately, “I didn’t put my name in!”

“I know!” Hermione reassured him, “I know. I believe you, Harry.” Harry relaxed a bit, letting out a breath of air he had been holding in since she saw him walk into the chamber.

“Whatever happens, Harry,” she said, taking his hand, “we’re in this together.”

“But Mr. Crouch said-”

“Mr. Crouch can shove off!” Hermione exclaimed, marching up the stairwell towards Gryffindor tower. “I don’t know who put your name in, Harry, but whoever did was not doing you a kindness. And I’ll be a monkey’s uncle before abandoning you to that fate.”

“I-” Harry stuttered stiffly, flashing Hermione an attempt at a smile. He instead settled for a hug, wrapping his arms around her. “Thanks, Hermione. I know I can always count on you.” She buried her face into his shoulder, giving him a tight hug before releasing him.

“Come on, then. Fred and George will probably crown both of us tonight.”  
  
Harry grinned at that and she celebrated that little victory, yet she could tell a thousand worries still plagued his mind. She couldn’t blame him. Hermione, at the very least, knew it was her own fault. She had been prideful and stupid enough to submit her name, knowing the risks. Harry had no choice and no one to pin the blame on. She had to remain confident. With their heads together maybe they would survive this foolishness.  
After shooing the Fat Lady’s friend away, that nosy gossip, and giving the password Harry and Hermione were assaulted by noise and light. Before they could protest they were yanked into the common room with the entirety of Gryffindor House to meet them, all screaming, applauding and whistling.

“You should’ve told us you’d entered!” Bellowed Fred to Harry, though Hermione could only just hear him above the tumult.

“How did you do it without getting a beard? Hermione, did you help him?! You should have told us!” George roared.

“I didn’t!” Harry said. “I didn’t submit my name-”

But before he could get another word out the mass of students descended upon them. People were shoving food into their hands, giving congratulations and celebrating the fact Gryffindor had not one, but two champions to cheer for. The girls seemed more interested in Hermione than Harry, some muttering he shouldn’t even compete against Hermione, but she shooed these naysayers away. She managed to escape the crowd before Harry. She considered going back to rescue him but she had a well-made bed and a sleeping-draught calling her name. Ascending the stairs to the girls' dormitory, Hermione was happy to see it abandoned.

After preparing for bed, she climbed into her four-poster, drawing the curtains to dissuade others from bothering her. Hermione drank the sleeping draught, relishing the feel of the sleeping draught warming her throat, anticipating the dreamless sleep soon to come. After the insanity of Halloween, she could do with dreamless sleep, though in hindsight she had spent most of the day sleeping already. Collapsing on her bed, as the potion took effect, she shook the worries from her head, wanting nothing more than to forget this day ever happened. Forget the tournament, forget Ron’s childish behavior, forget her own damnable pride and forget Fleur Delacour.

She wanted to forget the very image of the French witch: her pointy noise stuck in the air, hair practically levitating behind her in a dramatic breeze, the sway of her skirt as her hips rolled with her long, confident strides. Her eyelids began to feel heavy, thinking of those crystal blue eyes, the natural pout of her lips, and that irrational anger welling in her chest as it stretched into a smirk. Sleep took her then, thinking of that smirk. A strange realization came to mind before all thought was lost. She smelled that smell again. The smell of lilacs and spring rain.


	2. Bad Reputation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all, 
> 
> I want to thank everyone for their kind comments. I'm really excited by the enthused responses the first chapter garnered. Here's chapter 2 for all of you. Comments and criticisms welcomed. 
> 
> Have a fantastic day, 
> 
> Jekaterina

Hermione woke Sunday morning feeling better than she had in days. No panic attack, no horrific dreams, and no scent of lilacs and spring rain. She dressed for the day and went down to fetch breakfast. She figured the last thing Harry wanted was to join the crowd of jeering peers. Luckily, she was able to navigate her way down to the Great Hall and back with little interaction. She arrived at the portrait of the Fat Lady just as Harry clambered out of the entrance. He looked as tired and miserable as she felt the day before. They hurried down the Grand Stairs, passed the Great Hall and rushed towards the lake, avoiding every student wearing red and gold in sight. Neither wished to entertain their fellow giddy Gryffindors. As they circled the lake, munching on their toast, Hermione noticed her shoe was untied. She knelt, took the stings between her fingers, but paused. Her eyes stared at her untied shoe and panic set.   
  
“Harry,” she breathed, voice low and quiet. He paused, looking back at her.   
  
“What?” he said sharply, still agitated. Tears prickled her eyes as she looked up into his green stare. “What?” he repeated more gently, “What’s wrong?”   
  
“Please don’t say anything,” she muttered, fingers gripping her shoelaces tightly. “I - Oh, Merlin, - I can’t remember how to tie my shoe!” She gasped, looking desperately to Harry.

Harry stared, unmoved. Then, suddenly, a smile graced his lips. A small chuckle started it, bringing a small smile to her own lips, her panic slipping away. They both erupted into laughter, rolling to the ground, toast abandoned in the grass. It was a hysteric outburst. Nothing was truly funny, she knew, but Hermione couldn’t care at the moment. It felt too good to laugh, even just for an insane moment. When their hysteria subsided and their sides hurt to bursting, Harry rolled towards her, grabbing her shoelaces. With a smile, he tied them for her. They sat in silence, throwing their soddened toast to the giant squid until Harry began in a somber tone,  
  
“What are we going to do?”   
  
Hermione sighed, taking his hand in hers. She enjoyed holding Harry’s hand. Ron’s was too warm and sweaty, but Harry always had a cool touch. “We survive. Together.”   
  
“We’re not supposed to help each other,” Harry grumbled.   
  
“Harry,” she began, raising an eyebrow at him, “I’ve been keeping you alive since first year. I’m not about to abandon you for some gladiator competition.”   
  
“They’ll say we’re cheating-”  
  
“We’re two fourth years in over our heads!” Hermione exclaimed, “If they think we honestly care about winning-”  
  
“No one expects me to, but you,” Harry began, “Hermione, you heard Moody. The only reason my name was chosen was because it was the only one submitted to a fourth school, but you - you were chosen from all of the seventh year students!” Hermione paused, eyebrows furrowed. “That means the goblet thought you were the best competitor. Everyone’s going to expect you to win. You are the real Hogwarts champion.”   
  
“This is rubbish,” she decided, brushing her skirt down as she rose to her feet. “We survive together. We’ll worry about winning later. I’m not dying for glory - for Hogwarts’ nor my own. Honestly, it’s you we should be worrying about! Someone wants you in this tournament, Harry. We should write to Sirius. You’ve got to tell him what’s happening.”   
  
Though he was reluctant, Hermione managed to convince Harry to inform Sirius of the Triwizard tournament. Hermione knew how he felt, and how he would feel if Sirius was caught trying to help him. Harry would be devastated. Hermione was sure it was the thought of losing one of few connections to his parents, and the promise of a better life away from his muggle family, that made Harry pause. It was for the best, however. They were children trapped in a dangerous game and needed all of the help they could get. Hermione knew Sirius would never let harm come to Harry. Never abandon him. It was the look behind Sirius’ gaunt, hollow eyes that convinced Hermione of his innocence and his intentions towards Harry. It was that kind of care and devotion Harry needed at the moment, more so than protection. At least Sirius would write back, maybe even find a way to visit.   
  
Harry spoke to her on their way to the Owlry; however Hermione only half listened. Instead, her thoughts revolved around his words from earlier, how she was the “real” Hogwarts Champion. Hermione was chosen by the Goblet of Fire, her name presented on that singed piece of parchment, scrawled in Ron’s messy writing. The goblet threw aside hundreds of seventh year candidates, all qualified and eager to compete. It was unnerving and flattering, though she refused to acknowledge the preening pride swelling in her chest. She knew her situation was nothing to flaunt. What could a fourth year witch offer as Triwizard champion? Why had the goblet deigned to select her?   
It was all wrong! She had only meant to prove herself to Ron. To Fleur Delacour, a small, irrational part of her whispered. She was spiteful at her ridiculous need to justify herself to the Beaubatons champion. She was never meant to be selected, never meant to compete. Now she had to prove herself to the entire school, in the name of honor, glory, and an asinine tradition akin to medieval knights knocking each other off of horses with sticks. 

The week began with Hermione screaming. She scrambled away from her bed, kicking off her sheets, her eyes darted madly about the room. She expected to see trees, and mist, and a dark, looming figure. All she saw was Pavarti Patil and Lavender Brown gaping at her, woken by her panic. The other two girls slept on as Hermione’s panic attack set it, her breathing erratic, short and painful. Pavarti tried to approach, a hand extended carefully, but Hermione shook her head, grabbed her robes and fled to the water closet. Tears in her eye, she sunk to the floor, trying to take deep breaths, hoping the day would improve from there on. It didn’t.   
  
It was in Herbology Hermione began noticing the change. Professor Sprout eyed her suspiciously throughout the lesson, refusing to call on Hermione when she wanted to answer a question. Instead, she called on Hufflepuff students, praising them brightly with compliments and house points. Hermione dismissed it as a temporary thing, recalling Hufflepuff house had rooted for Cedric Diggery to be Hogwarts champion. Hufflepuff saw so little chance for glory she understood the favoritism. She let it go. The Slytherins were behaving far worse, but it couldn’t have been easy for them to cheer for Gryffindor, whether it was for Hermione or Harry. She thought nothing of this, either. The next few days, however, Hermione’s life became Topsy turvy.   
  
Professor Sprout wasn’t the only professor to react poorly to Hermione’s sudden disobedience. Before, most of the professors treated her almost as a mini colleague, trusting her with minor tasks, discussing the subject more in-depth because of her interest and hunger for knowledge. Professor Sprout was just the beginning.   
Professor Snape seemed to have spent the last few days finding new ways to torture her, making snide comments and giving Hermione extra challenging assignments well above her year, since she thought herself a seventh year. When he realized she actually enjoyed the new coursework, he changed tactics, giving her simple assignments, ones she could have completed in her sleep as a first year. This was far more effective, boring Hermione to tears and frustrating her beyond reason.   
  
Madame Pince, the librarian who usually favored Hermione, shushed her at every small sound, every scratch of her quill, every creak of her chair.   
  
Professor Vector thought Hermione’s rebellious behavior was due to her not being challenged in class and decided more homework was the key.   
  
Professor Flitwick was the only professor happy with her little stunt, impressed by her use of such a challenging charm. He sneaked her more advanced spell books, though insisted she not tell Professor McGonagall, as he heard an earful from her about inappropriate distribution of coursework.   
  
Out of all of them, it was the transfiguration professor’s behavior that distressed Hermione. Ever since sitting with her in the hospital wing, Professor McGonagall treated Hermione with distant disappointment. She still acknowledged her in class, unlike Professor Sprout, but there was no small smile as she answered another question correctly, no affectionate pat on the head, no sympathy and compassion. It had been Professor McGonagall who comforted Hermione that first year of school when she had no friends. It was Professor McGonagall who encouraged her to pursue her love of learning. It was Professor McGonagall who sat at her bedside when she was petrified by the Basilisk. It was Professor McGonagall who introduced her to the wizarding world. She was like a third parent to Hermione, the magical parent she never had. The woman’s disappointment was shattering.   
  
Juxtaposed to her superior’s disapproval, Hermione’s peers began treating her with newfound interest. Once other students saw her go against the Headmaster’s wishes - best him, even - students Hermione never spoke to were wishing her well in the halls, congratulating her, asking how she did it, saying they would root for her come November. The girls in her dormitory, who had long since written her off as snobbish and annoying, were jumping to speak with her, congregating on her bed at night, trying to include her in the latest gossip. She shooed them away, usually threatening them with whatever heavy book she had at her bedside. Even some Slytherins were acknowledging her in the halls, wanting to pit her against Harry; though Malfoy still made his snide comments. Her social life - well, in the simplest terms - suddenly she had a social life. Instead of Hermione Granger: teacher's pet, know-it-all, and bookworm she was suddenly Hermione Granger: school champion, rule breaker and Triwizard Champion. Apparently, the only thing needed to become popular was to challenge established authority.  
  
Hermione didn’t care for this new surge of popularity, and would have traded it in a heartbeat if it meant repairing her relationship with Professor McGonagall, or making life a little easier for Harry. She knew the student population was not extending the same approval to him, especially the girls of Gryffindor house. They were treating him poorly, feeling Harry shouldn’t compete against Hermione and that he was trying to overshadow her, threatened by a woman champion. She knew this was ridiculous and tried to dissuade these opinions, with little to no effect. Hermione tried reminding Harry it was them against the world like they agreed at the lake shore. She sensed it wasn’t as easy for him to ignore the increased hostilities and suspicion, especially with Ron insisting his guilt. The redhead was convinced Harry had submitted his name.   
  
She tried reasoning with Ron, but he wouldn’t hear it. He felt Harry should have told him, at the very least, and Hermione knew then it wasn’t about jealousy. Ron was hurt. He felt Harry left him out of some grand adventure. She was at the point of ripping her hair out, wishing the two would simply makeup or hash it out. But Harry was just as stubborn and indignant and since, out of the two of them, he was the sensible one she truly felt no hope for the situation. As the school’s hostilities grew towards Harry, Hermione repeated her mantra of “Ignore them” which she began to realize only further irritated him. But without anything else to encourage him “Ignore them” just kept slipping out.   
Harry’s mood was particularly foul as they made their way to Snape’s dungeon for double potions, where the Slytherins waited outside. Hermione caught sight of large, round buttons and, for a wild moment, she thought they were wearing one of her S.P.E.W. badges. Instead, the buttons read _Slytherins for Krum_.   
  
“Like them, Potter?” Malfoy called out loudly as they approached. “And this isn’t all they do - look!” He pressed his badge and the message vanished, instead showing an image of Krum throwing a quaffle at Harry’s head, stating: Potter Stinks.   
  
“Oh, very funny,” she said sarcastically, “really witty.”   
  
“Want one, Granger?” Malfoy smirked, though it seemed lackluster, for some reason. Less effective. “I’ve got loads. But don’t touch my hand, now. I’ve just washed it, you see; don’t want a Mudblood sliming it up.”   
  
With a flourish, Harry’s wand was in his hand, face red with anger. Hermione jumped back, seeing Malfoy raise his own wand.   
  
“Harry!” She hissed, but he didn’t lower his guard.   
  
“Go on, then, Potter,” Malfoy goaded, “Moody’s not here to look after you now - do it, if you’ve got the guts -” For a wild moment she thought he would back down, but her hopes were dashed as Harry called out,  
  
“Furnunculus!”  
  
“Densaugeo!” Malfoy screamed.   
  
All Hermione saw was a bright white light before her head hit the ground.   
  
“Hermione!” She heard her name but her mind was rolling. She felt hands on her, saw a head of red hair, but her focus was on the peculiar feeling in her front teeth. As they brushed her bottom lip she realized her front teeth were growing. With a shriek, her hands flew to her face, trying to cover her mouth. Ron tried to wrestle her hands away but she fought him off, feeling her teeth stretch passed her chin.   
  
“And what is all this noise about?” Oh, no. No, no, no. Not him. Anyone but Snape. She heard a volley of explanations, but Malfoy was chosen to give the truth.   
  
“Potter attacked me, sir-”  
  
“We attacked each other at the same time!” Harry shouted.   
  
“-and he hit Goyle - look-”  
  
“Malfoy got Hermione!” Ron exclaimed and she felt his hands wrap around her wrist. She tried to fight him, tried to cover herself, but he was too strong. Her hands were pulled from her face and Pansy Parkinson let out a shriek of laughter. The Slytherin girls began giggling and chortling as Snape’s cold eyes stared down at her.   
  
“I see no difference.” Tears burned her eyes as she choked back a sob, jumping to her feet and rushing down the hall. Madame Pomfrey was not at all pleased to see her again so soon but after seeing how upset she was the Healer took her in and shrunk her teeth, no questions asked. Just as Hermione was getting used to her new bite, Professor McGonagall charged into the infirmary, stopping at Hermione’s bed.   
  
“Miss Granger,” she said in a huff, appearing out of breath. “If you intend to make this a habit I may just put you in a bubble!”   
  
“With books?” she asked, eyes looking up at McGonagall, desperate for comfort. The Professor pursed her lips, but soon a small smile cracked her stern face.   
  
“Of course, dear. I’m no monster.” Hermione smiled as the older witch sat down. “You are not to make this a habit, my dear,” she said, pointing a finger. “Potter is enough trouble without having to worry for you.”   
  
“I’m sorry, Professor,” she muttered. “I know I have been behaving-”  
  
“Like a teenager,” Professor McGonagall interrupted. “Hermione, you are one of the brightest students I have ever had the pleasure of teaching.” At this, Hermione felt the paradoxical swell of pride and shame, having felt she failed her mentor somehow. “You may have an old soul but you are still a teenager. You’ll find the next few years you will do strange and seemingly crazy things, simply because your emotions dictated you do so. Why, I remember the summer after I graduated from Hogwarts, returning to my family’s manse. You see, I fell in love with a muggle man from the village.” Hermione leaned forward, excitement jumping in her chest. It was a rare thing for McGonagall to speak of her past. “We had such a wonderful time,” Professor McGonagall smiled a smile Hermione had never seen before, one full of happiness and bliss. “He was a simple farmer but he was adventurous and brave and true. He led me through the woods and we played in the glen until the fireflies came out. He purposed to me that summer with his family ring.”   
  
“What did you say?” Hermione asked, leaning further towards her, not wanting to miss a second.   
  
“I said yes,” McGonagall confessed, though there was no happy smile. Instead, she gave Hermione a mournful expression, shaking her head. “But the next morning I told him I couldn’t.”   
  
“Why?” Hermione gasped. The professor took Hermione’s hands in hers.  
   
“My father was a muggle,” she explained slowly. “He was a kind man, a gentle man, my mother eloped with. It was only after I was born she told him she was a witch. I saw what my mother did to be with my father. She hid her wand away and taught me and my brothers to do the same. I helped her hide our magic from the neighbors and had to deal with my father’s lack of knowledge. I couldn’t live as my mother did, in fear, in hiding, locking my magic away. So I told my love I loved him no more, though it broke my heart. I moved to London and worked at the Ministry before returning to Hogwarts. My point being,” Professor McGonagall gave her hands a squeeze, “That summer I remember being foolish and proud and emotional. It’s what teenagers do. You made a mistake, Hermione. You’ll make plenty more. I’m afraid I made a mistake, as well, forgetting you weren’t my fellow, but a young girl in need of adventure and excitement, just as I was that summer in the highlands.” Hermione did something then she had not done since her first year of Hogwarts. She launched herself from the bed and embraced Professor McGonagall. The older witch wrapped her arms around her, chuckling as Hermione clung to her robes.   
  
“I’m frightened, Professor,” she confessed.  
  
“You are the brightest witch of your age, my dear,” McGonagall said. “You’ll be alright. So long as you do your best in the tasks ahead, you’ll be alright.”   
  
“I wasn’t referring to the tournament.” The confession left her lips before she could prevent it and she felt the professor stiffen. Professor McGonagall pulled back, eyes searching Hermione’s face for an answer. “I-” She stuttered, pausing to regain her courage. “I’ve been having strange dreams - dreams I can’t remember. But afterwards I wake up afraid, panicked, I-” Hermione paused, tears welling in her eyes. “It’s getting worse and worse and I’m afraid to close my eyes.”  
  
“Dear girl,” Professor McGonagall whispered, rubbing Hermione’s arms affectionately. “How long has this been going?”   
  
“Halloween,” she confessed. Before McGonagall could inquire further, Collin Crevey ran into the Hospital Wing, breathing heavily.   
  
“I-” He gasped, bending over, leaning on his knees as he caught his breath. “The champions- the champions need to go-”  
  
“Oh, for goodness sakes, Mr. Creevy!” Professor McGonagall huffed, “What about the champions?”   
  
“The champions are,” he gave a long gasp before continuing, “needed for photographs.”   
  
“Well, at least I won’t be going back to potions,” Hermione sighed, giving Professor McGonagall a small smile.   
  
“You go, Miss Granger,” the older witch said. “I’ll ask Poppy regarding your dilemma.” Hermione gave her a grateful smile before walking towards the door. “And Miss Granger!” McGonagall called. Hermione spun around in a heartbeat. “Don’t think I didn’t notice,” she said, gesturing to her own teeth. She flashed a guilty smile before racing off with Collin Creevey.   
  
The third year led her to a small classroom a few floors up. The desks were pushed aside to make room in the center of the chamber. Five chairs sat in front of a velvet backdrop. Ludo Bagman was sitting in one of these chairs. Viktor Krum stood up straighter as she entered the room, raising his eyebrows from their contemplative furrowed expression. Fleur Delacour stood by the window, looking over the grounds, ignoring the cameraman openly gawking at her. She was surprised to see Mr. Ollivander seated at the judges' table, Madame Maxime and Professor Karkaroff hovering over him suspiciously. Hermione’s eyebrows furrowed, noticing who was missing from the crowd.   
  
“Where’s Harry?” She asked. Fleur turned on her toes and Hermione wished she had remained quiet. Squared away in her powder blue uniform, the Frenchwoman regarded her with that same self-satisfied smirk that sent Hermione into irrational anger. Instead of giving Fleur the satisfaction, she turned to Viktor, who simply gestured to the broom cupboard. Hermione scrunched her face, confused by the answer, but moved to it all the same. Ludo Bagman jumped up at once.   
  
“Don’t mind that, Miss Granger!” He said, all too quickly, “Just a little interview for the Daily Prophet!”   
  
“Interview?” She repeated suspiciously. “In a broom cupboard? Harry!” She knocked on the door. “Harry, are you in there!”   
  
“Hermione!” She heard Harry exclaim and suddenly the door flew open. Harry emerged, eyes searching her face. She knew he must have been looking for her enlarged teeth. She simply flashed him a smile, showing him her fixed overbite. “Thank goodness! When you took off like that-”  
  
“Sorry to interrupt,” a woman said, emerging from the closet after Harry. She appeared anything but sorry, an acid green quill poised in her hand. “But we weren’t quite done, Harry, dear-”  
  
“I think you are, Rita,” Dumbledore announced as he entered the classroom.   
  
“Dumbledore!” the woman exclaimed, “How are you? I hope you saw my piece over the summer about the International Confederation of Wizards’ Conference?”   
  
“Enchantingly nasty,” Dumbledore said, a twinkle in his eye. “I particularly enjoyed your description of me as an obsolete dingbat.” Hermione gasped but this Rita looked less than bashful. “But I’m afraid we will have to discuss the matter later. The Weighting of the Wands is about to start. May I introduce Mr. Ollivander? He will be checking your wands to ensure that they are in good condition before the tournament.” Mr. Ollivander gave a little wave before gesturing to Fleur.   
  
“Mademoiselle Delacour, could we have you first, please?” said Mr. Ollivander. Fleur swept over to him, brandishing her wand. “Hmmmm…” He twirled the wand between long, thin, fingers, and it emitted a number of pink and gold sparks. “Yes,” he muttered, “nine and a half inches…inflexible…rosewood…and containing…dear me…”   
  
“A ‘air from ze ‘ead of a veela,” Fleur finished, smiling with pride. “One from my grandmuzzer’s.” Hermione openly gaped at the confession. She wasn’t sure which was more shocking, the fact that Fleur was Veela or that Ron was right about something.   
  
Mr. Ollivander made a few more comments before making a bunch of flowers burst from the wand tip. “Very well, very well, it’s in fine working order,” he said, handing the flowers to Fleur, along with her wand. “Miss Granger, you next.” Hermione nodded, withdrawing her vinewood wand. “I heard a little rumor you performed quite a bit of difficult magic with this wand recently,” Mr. Ollivander said, eyes searching Hermione’s. She nodded reluctantly, to which he shook his head. “Nothing to be ashamed of, Miss Granger, I knew you had hidden potential all the while! Vinewood doesn’t choose lightly. I remembered the day you entered my shop that wand rattled in its box - you remember?”   
  
“Yes,” she confessed, giving Mr. Ollivander a small smile, “I thought you hid a mouse in the box.” The wandmaker let out a chuckle at this.   
  
“Yes, yes, but it was really the vinewood reacting to you, seeking you, knowing you would give it a greater purpose. This particular wand was made on the autumn equinox if I recall correctly. You must have been feeling very passionate that day you cast your charms to cross the Age Line.” Her eyes betrayed her the, flickering to Fleur Delacour, her crystal blue eyes watching the exchange with interest.  
  
“I’m afraid I don’t follow,” she said, diverting her attention back to Ollivander.   
  
“Vinewood response powerfully to great emotions - both great happiness or great wrath. Now, let me take a look here.” He fiddled with her wand in a similar fashion as Fleur’s, all the while Hermione felt the blond’s eyes on her. She heard those heels click about the room, circling the table, and the veela entered Hermione’s field of vision. It was almost like she wanted Hermione to catch her eye, but the fourth year knew the second she did that bloody smirk would dance at Fleur’s lips, sending Hermione into a fury. With her wand being examined, and with the new found knowledge of its connection to her emotions, she suspected rattling herself into a frenzy would do her no favors. “Ah, yes, dragon heartstring, unyielding and dangerous. A good wand for a powerful hand. Ten and three-quarters.” With a stream of silver smoke rings, Mr. Ollivander returned her wand, pronouncing it in working order. She pocketed her wand and finally risked a glance towards the Beauxbatons champion. Fleur met her gaze, blue eyes dancing in amusement. The Veela rolled her wand between her thumb and forefingers, turning back to the window as Ollivander examined Krum’s wand.   
  
Tired of the blond’s little game, Hermione followed her. Fleur watched her approach but turned her eyes to look out over the ground when Hermione stood beside her.   
  
“Look,” Hermione began, “I know you are less than thrilled by the turn of events, I’m not so keen on them myself, but we can at least act civil, don’t you think?” A smile graced Fleur’s lips, though she didn’t meet Hermione’s eyes. She instead kept looking over the ground.   
  
“Gloomy,” Fleur spoke. Hermione paused, baffled by the sudden comment.   
  
“I’m sorry?”   
  
“Gloomy, zis country of yours,” Fleur repeated, gesturing with her wand to the gray clouds hanging over the grounds. “Zere is not a ray of light in the world, it seems. In France, ze sun is never so far away.” Hermione didn’t know quite how to respond. She had tried to extend an olive branch, yet Fleur seemed determined to complain about the…weather? “Ze food is far too ‘eavy, as well, ‘ave you noticed?”  
  
“The…food?” Hermione questioned, still utterly befuddled. An unusual, irritated noise escaped her throat.  
  
“Oui, ‘eavy and greasy food. At Beauxbatons, we ‘ave ze best chiefs in ze world prepare our food. Whoever cooks ‘ere cannot be trying too ‘ard!”   
  
“The house elves are doing their best!” Hermione replied, defensively. “Not that you’d notice, your nose so high in the air, complaining about ridiculous things! Must you be nasty about everything?  
  
“But of course,” she confirmed, finally gazing down at Hermione, a strange twinkle in her eye. It was nothing like Dumbledore’s good-natured expression. It was mischievous, taunting. “If somezing is not suitable, do you expect me to lie? Oh, yes,” Fleur began, sarcastically, in a higher pitched voice,” “Zank you, mademoiselle, ze food is lovely. Oh, yes, zank you, mademoiselle, no, I am not freezing in zis miserable castle. Oh, yes, zank you, mademoiselle, you ‘ave such a,” Fleur’s smile widened, rolling her eyes, “beautiful country. When I find somezing to enjoy in zis cold, awful place, ma petite,” Fleur put a finger under Hermione’s chin, holding her face still as she leaned forward, invading Hermione’s personal space, “you will be ze first to know, I am sure.” Heat rose to Hermione’s face. She wasn’t sure if it was out of anger or from just how close Fleur was standing. She wasn’t so tall, Hermione thought spitefully. Fleur only stood a few inches taller, without her heels. With her heels, however, she loomed over the Gryffindor, that smirk sending Hermione into a white, hot fury. She slapped the blond’s hand away but didn’t move, refusing to retreat.   
  
“You spoiled little tart!” Hermione began, but suddenly someone cleared their throat behind them. Hermione spun to find that Rita woman standing behind them, her penciled eyebrow arching unnaturally high. She took a step away from Fleur, heat rising in her face. The blond simply glared at the reporter. That’s when Hermione noticed everyone staring. Harry looked baffled, eyes darting between Fleur and Hermione. Viktor Krum, who stood in the corner from the group, watched them with a strange pout playing at his grumpy face. The headmasters, all standing together with the photographer, appeared annoyed. All held nothing but annoyance and their display - all but Dumbledore, who watched in amusement, a smile touching his lips. Madame Maxime waved a large hand at Fleur, exclaiming in French,   
  
“ _Fleur! Come here, at once! You may play later!_ ” Fleur looked none too pleased by this but did as requested. Face red with embarrassment, Hermione rushed to Harry’s side, grabbing his arm once more. She noticed Krum’s strange pout darken, but he soon directed his attention to his headmaster.   
  
“Well, then!” Ludo Bagman exclaimed, “Photos! All the judges and champions, what do you think, Rita?” They were all jostled about, trying to find a position Madame Maxime would fit into the frame. Eventually, she sat while everyone else stood. The photographer was keen on getting Fleur in the front but Rita ripped Harry from Hermione’s grip and put him center frame. Fleur, much to Hermione’s displeasure, took his place. She tried ignoring the blond but the irrational irritation invading her mind kept her aware of Fleur’s every movement. Well, not every movement she soon realized, as she felt a thin, manicured finger lightly touch her side. Hermione shrieked, jumping back from Fleur, holding her ribs. The Beauxbatons’ champion looked amused beyond words but the rest of the company shot Hermione a frustrated look, having foiled a photo.   
  
“Sorry,” She said before glaring at Fleur Delacour. “What are you on about?!” Hermione hissed, trying to keep her voice down.   
  
“You ‘re ticklish,” Fleur said as if making a fantastic discovery.   
  
“No, I am not!” Hermione bit back, but instantly felt Fleur’s fingers back on her ribs. “Don’t do that!” She said, wishing her pitch hadn’t had climbed quite so high. A broad grin stretched over Fleur’s face.  
  
“I knew it,” she said, triumphant, “You were ticklish Halloween night, as well.” Hermione was gobsmacked, suddenly remembering how she had been pushed back into Fleur, and how Fleur’s hands found their way to her sides, preventing her from falling.   
  
“What is it to you if I’m ticklish!”   
  
“Sensitivity is a good zing, ma petite,” Fleur whispered as Madame Maxime shot them a had glare from her chair. “At least, when you are older. I am sure Mousier Potter will enjoy zat.”   
  
“What do you mean when you’re-” Her eyes widened, suddenly catching on to Fleur’s point. Her face went as red as Weasley hair. “How dare you!” She shrieked, crossing her arms over her ribcage, guarding against further attacks. “Harry and I are not- we’re just friends!”   
  
“Miss!” The photographer exclaimed, causing Hermione to jump, “Please stay still, and scoot a bit closer to Mademoiselle Delacour!” She did as he asked, but begrudgingly, as he took more photos.   
  
“Harry and I are just friends,” she hissed quietly, not even looking at Fleur.   
  
“I see,” Fleur said, and Hermione couldn’t help but notice a slight change in octave, her note hitting a bit higher. “No fretting, ma petite, I am sure you will find someone to show you ze benefits of sensitive skin.” Hermione suddenly felt very self-conscious standing next to the blond for the photo. Next to Fleur Delacour - tall and beautiful Fleur Delacour - Hermione looked like the frumpy librarian’s assistant, with her frizzy hair, lightly freckled face, and baggy jumper. She had grown over summer, she knew, curves setting in, breasts developing, but she was nothing compared to the French girl. Tears threatened her eyes but she refused to cry. She wouldn’t give Fleur the satisfaction.   
  
“Why do you have to be so nasty?” Hermione whispered, her voice lacking its previous strength. Fleur’s eyes shot down to her and, for once, her smirk faded.   
  
“Pardon?” But before Fleur could ask further the photographer called for individual photos. She kept her distance from the Beauxbatons champion after that and rushed out of the room with Harry when it was all done. They descended the stairs in silence towards dinner, making it to the entrance hall before Harry asked,   
  
“What happened with Fleur Delacour?”   
  
“She’s a right nasty piece of work,” Hermione hissed, shoving away her self-consciousness and regaining some of her anger. “She’s nothing but a spoiled little-” Before she could finish Hermione paused, taking a deep breath. She took another and turned to Harry. “Do you smell that?” she whispered, fear creeping under her skin, cold and icy fingers wrapping around her neck.   
  
“Smell what?” Harry asked.   
  
“Lilacs and spring rain,” she whispered, dreading the night ahead.


	3. Some Dreams are Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all of the kind feedback. As always, comments or criticisms are welcome. This chapter runs a little slow, but in the next chapter everything heats up. 
> 
> Thank you for reading and have a great day, 
> 
> Jekaterina

The panic attacks only grew worse.   
  
Hermione woke screaming almost every night, shocking the other girls in the dormitory. Eventually, she asked Professor Flitwick to teach her the Silencing Charm, claiming it was out of boredom. Since her spectacular memory charm, Flitwick was more than eager to teach her increasingly complicated magic, against McGonagall’s wishes. She mastered the spell in a few days and placed it on herself most nights, so as not to wake the other girls with her screams. As promised, Professor McGonagall spoke with Madame Pomfrey, who believed the panic attacks stemmed from anxiety. There was no way to continually take a sleeping draught safely, the risk of addiction too great. One too many, she knew, and she would never wake again. At most, Madame Pomfrey prescribed one a week, which Hermione used on the weekends when she could sleep as long as needed.   
  
Hermione was exhausted, more irritable. She and Harry made quite the pair, especially after Rita Skeeter’s article was published in the Daily Prophet. As it turned out, the article was less about the Triwizard Tournament and more about a dramatized retelling of Harry’s life with Harry painted as the tragic, but optimistic hero, and Hermione, his beautiful true love. Hermione had already heard the Slytherin girls snickering over that particular delusion.   
  
Beautiful.   
  
It was a word Hermione never identified with; never truly felt she deserved. The mature, rational side of Hermione was okay with this. She didn’t need to feel beautiful for validation - she had so much more to offer the world. But in the darkest parts of her mind, that word kept cropping up, kept grating at her nerves, kept conjuring an image of blond hair and crystal blue eyes.   
  
Fleur Delacour was only mentioned in the article once, as Triwizard Champion. Her name was misspelled, badly, as well as Viktor Krum’s. She would catch the Veela watching from time to time, mostly in the Great Hall during meals. Every time, the Veela’s eyes caught her gaze, shift to Harry, and then turn away. It was a simple enough reaction. Yet nothing was simple with Fleur Delacour. She didn’t just catch Hermione’s gaze, she held it. She didn’t just look at Harry, she glared. She didn’t just turn away, she huffed as if offended. This irrationally complicated range of emotive abilities made Fleur Delacour frustrate Hermione long after the Veela was out of sight. She must have read the Daily Prophet, Hermione thought. She was scornful at not getting the attention and glory she so clearly craved - overshadowed by a child. That gave Hermione just a tad bit of guilty satisfaction.   
  
As the first task crept closer Harry and Hermione found themselves in the library more and more - Harry studying the theories of summoning charms, per Hermione’s advice, and Hermione researching previous events in the Triwizard tournaments, seeing if she could get some insight on the first task. That’s how they began the Saturday before the first task, each dealing with their own unique panic attacks.  
  
“The first Triwizard Tournament was held in the 12th or 13th century. It’s difficult to specify a date, but the tournament was discontinued in 1792 due to,” Hermione flipped the page, groaning at what she found, “to the high death toll. Perfect,” she muttered bitterly, gritting her teeth when Madame Pince shooshed her from across the chamber.   
  
“Brilliant,” Harry drolled, staring at a book on summoning charms. Not reading. Staring. Harry made no effort to read, and no effort to simply close the book. She knew is only joy in life was the prospect of speaking with Sirius that night, and even that didn’t seem to elate him as it usually did. Hermione sighed, continuing to read.   
  
“Out of the one hundred and twenty-five tournaments held over the centuries, Hogwarts had won sixty-three times, followed closely by Beauxbatons, with sixty-two. Strange, there’s no mention of Durmstrang winning…” Hermione knew she could not discount Viktor readily, however. He was an accomplished Seeker for Bulgaria and she had a sneaking suspicion his quiet nature was more for observational purposes rather than from shyness. “The last tournament involved catching a rowdy cockatrice; however, the beast went on a dangerous rampage, injuring champions and judges alike.”   
  
“What, exactly, is a cockatrice?” Harry asked with a groan, slamming his head onto his book.  
  
“I don’t know. I’m afraid to look it up,” Hermione confessed and continued, “One tournament in the 15th century, the champions had to hunt a Thestral. One champion went so far as to kill a spectator, thus enabling him to see the creature. Another tournament in the 17th century, a duel was held as the final task, ending with both the last standing champions fatally wounded. In the 18th century, a Thunderbird was transported from America to act as large snitch - the one to catch it without being struck by lightening proclaimed the winner of the tournament. All three champions died in the attempt. Oh, this is marvelous!” Hermione slammed her books shut, cursing under her breath at another loud ‘shoosh!’ from the librarian.   
  
Whatever precautions the ministry had taken, it was clear their lives were very much in danger. She began making a list of spells, charms, jinxes and defensive magic that might help in the tournament - ones the other two champions were sure to have learned. Harry remained collapsed over Summoning Theories: Grasping the Summoning Charm. She wasn’t confident Harry was particularly receptive to learning them at the moment, not when he was having so much trouble with his summoning charms, not when his life was very much in danger again, not when he not only had to worry about surviving this bloody tournament but also worry about who wanted him dead in the first place. Despite this, Hermione persisted in pushing him. He needed to be as prepared as possible, and she would rather have him irritated than dead.   
  
As she opened another book, Hermione felt her eyes grow heavy. She shook her head, trying to stave off sleep. She was not in the mood to scream herself awake in public. It was hard enough to make excuses for her dormmates. She couldn’t imagine Harry’s reaction. He had enough to deal with. He didn’t need her crying about nightmares. She went so far as to pinch herself, eventually having a wide collection of bruises up and down her forearm. Just when she found a spell that might be of use, Viktor Krum entered the library. Hermione gave an exasperated sigh and Madame Pince gave her another ‘shoosh!’ He took up roost in a chair down the way from her, his usual perch. Soon her quiet haven would be invaded by giggling, noisy girls. She and Harry decided to make their escape while they could, though Hermione made sure to cast Krum a polite smile as she passed.   
  
With her library converted to a Viktor Krum exhibit for fangirls, Hermione and Harry went their separate ways for a while - Harry to the Common Room and Hermione to Professor McGonagall’s office to read. In her first year, when no one liked her, Hermione spent much of her free time reading in Minerva McGonagall’s office as the older witch graded papers and filled out paperwork. She would go to complain to McGonagall at times and cry on her shoulder when people teased her, but mostly it was a quiet, safe place she could be her curious self. It was her emergency sanctuary nowadays, as McGonagall was the only one who knew the full extent of her problems.   
  
“How is your memory, Miss Granger?” McGonagall inquired, eyes still on her paperwork. “Is there any further concerns?”   
  
“No, Professor,” Hermione replied, eyes gliding across the pages of her book. “I even remember how to tie my shoes again, much to Harry’s delight.” The older witch chuckled at this.   
  
“I’m sure Mr. Potter is happy to help. And your panic attacks?” Hermione’s finally lifted her eyes, finding McGonagall’s intense gaze examining her. “I know Professor Flitwick taught you the Silencing Charm, and Miss Brown’s complaint the other week leads me to believe it wasn’t due to ‘boredom’ in class.” Hermione swallowed, nervously. “A clever solution, but it only treats the symptom - not the problem.”   
  
“I don’t know if there is a solution, Professor,” Hermione confessed, slamming her book shut. “Every night is the same,” her voice began to shake, exhaustion getting the better of her. “I fall asleep, I dream this horrible dream I can’t remember and I wake screaming. My nerves are so frazzled, every little thing sets me off now, I’m getting as agitated as Harry! All I can remember is a dark figure, a forest, and the smell of lilacs and spring rain. They’re simply dreams, though. Madame Pomfrey said as much. I’m sure they’ll ebb away with time.” Hermione wished she felt as confident as she sounded. McGonagall didn’t seem to agree, releasing a heavy sigh and leaning back in her chair.   
  
“Perhaps it is time for a second opinion. The first task is fast approaching, Miss Granger. If you are too exhausted to compete, well…I fear the results.”   
  
“I have a sleeping draught reserved for the night before, so I’ll have a full night’s rest-”  
  
“One night’s rest does not account for weeks of deprivation,” McGonagall argued, and Hermione couldn’t think of a reasonable rebuttal. “We will discuss this more at a later date. I know you have plans with Potter. Go to Hogsmeade. You look in need of a break.” With a reluctant sigh, she abandoned her books on one of McGonagall’s bookcases (she was coming back, anyway) and went to find Harry.   
  
In Hogsmeade Hermione’s attempt at reuniting Harry with Ron fizzled before she could get a spark. She collapsed into the booth at the Three Broomsticks, defeated. With Harry stubbornly hidden away under his cloak, Hermione received the majority of the attention. Students and villagers alike approached to try and speak with her about the first task, the tournament, or Rita Skeeter’s article. She thought to capitalize on this newfound interest, pitching S.P.E.W to all who would listen. She got a few new names and made a little progress, but most, especially those who were raised in the wizarding world, thought the whole affair strange at best, offensive at worst. A few heated debates ensued, ending with the witch or wizard stomping off in a rage. Good riddance, Hermione thought; however, it was discouraging how little support she gained.   
  
With the recent chaos in her life, Hermione had yet to give proper attention to the Society for the Promotion of Elvish Welfare. She tried to make time when she could - she might be facing near and present danger, but that was nothing compared to generations of oppression and slavery. The short list of members was disheartening, but the beginning of any venture always began small. She hoped the movement would grow in time, with love and care. Rationally, Hermione knew patience would be the key; however, her need for direct action made her contemplate the Elves working in the school kitchens and the possibility of getting actual Elves to support S.P.E.W.  
  
For a mad moment, when Hagrid and Professor Moody approached, the former leaning over her shoulder to look at her notes, Hermione believed the crazed wizard might be interested in Elvish welfare. An odd turn of events, but the prospect of gaining a professor’s support was exciting. But, of course, it was only a ruse to speak with Harry, that mad eye darting about Harry’s place across from her.   
  
After the professors left, Harry confided in Hermione about Hagrid’s invitation. She thought it a bad idea, as the escapade left the boy’s meeting with Sirius at risk. But Harry seemed resolute. So, against her better judgment, Hermione helped Harry escape the common room to meet with Hagrid, staged outside the Fat Ladies portrait. She wished him luck before retreating to her bed, casting the Silencing Charm on herself. As soon as she closed her eyes, she fell into a black abyss.

_A soft lullaby hummed in her ears. She awoke on flat ground, blades of grass creasing her cheek, wet from midnight dew. She rose to her bare feet, gripping her wand tightly. She stood in a dark meadow, all light absent in the distance. She smelled rain in the air and the sweet scent of lilacs.  
_  
 _A black shape came into the clearing and for a wild_ moment _, she thought it was a Dementor. She raised her wand, an attempt at the Patronus Charm playing at her lips, but the Dementor took a step toward her. It didn’t float. It took another step and Hermione realized it wasn’t a Dementor at all. The cloaked figure circled her in the clearing, always facing her. She saw nothing beneath_ its _cowl, darkness destroying any hint of light.  
_  
 _“Who are you?” She cried out, wand raised,_ hand shaking _. The creature didn’t respond. It stood there, watching. Waiting. Her chest constricted tightly under_ its _gaze. She gasped for breath but couldn’t inhale. Her lungs fought for air, but nothing could bypass the dread and fear that filled her. Tears stung her eyes, a death grip on her wand as she fell to her knees. The figure approached._ Its _cloak billowed behind him but no light could catch the fabric. It was pure blackness, pure nothing. Tears fell from her eyes, seeing the creature draw closer and closer. His cloak of darkness swept over her and she screamed._

“Hermione!” Hermione sprung up, hand reaching for her wand. Her chest heaved up and down, hyperventilating. Her eyes burned with tears as she looked about. Lavender Brown, Parvati Patil, and Fay Dunbar stood over her. She realized, horrified, that her screams broke through the silencing charm. The girls stood a few feet away, scared to touch her, scared to approach.   
  
“Hermione?” Parvati began kindly, bravely inching closer. It was then Hermione noticed she was shaking, shaking like a scared little girl. She was soaked, cold sweat dripping from her brow. She threw her wand aside, afraid of accidental magic. “Hermione, what happened?” Parvati asked, “What’s the matter?”   
  
“I-” Hermione tried to speak but found her voice constricting, unyielding, torn from screaming. “I need McGonagall,” she said, hoarsely. “I need- I need the hospital wing,” she sobbed and tried to govern her body more carefully.   
  
“Lav, go! Get Professor McGonagall,” Parvati said, pointing Lavender to the door. “I’ll help Hermione to the Hospital Wing. Hermione?” she said gently, helping the witch from her bed, grabbing her shoes, “Hermione, do you want us to get Harry? Or Ron?”   
  
“No,” she said quickly, “No, I-” She looked down at her shoe and cursed her luck. She couldn’t remember how to tie it again. She tied them in the best knot she could, choosing to worry about it later. “No, just Professor McGonagall.”   
  
Parvati was kind enough to walk her down to the Hospital Wing, escorted by a Prefect they ran into. Madame Pomfrey, freshly woken from the look of her, herded Hermione towards a bed, but she didn’t want to lay down. She never wanted to sleep again. Professor McGonagall came rushing into the room still in her nightrobes, followed closely by Lavender Brown.   
  
“Miss Granger!” She exclaimed, “My poor child, you’re white as a sheet! Miss Patil, thank you for your aid. You and Miss Brown may go back to bed.”  
  
“Yes, Professor,” Parvati said before patting Hermione’s shoulder gently, “Feel better, Hermione.” Hermione gave her a tight-lipped smile before she left, followed by a yawning Lavender Brown. McGonagall was by her bedside, shaking her head at the girl.   
  
“What did I say about not making this a habit?” Hermione couldn’t help but laugh, though it was half-hearted. Her body was sore - as if she fought three rounds with the giant squid. “Was it the dreams again?”  
  
“Yes,” she answered. Her body began to shake at the memory, the cloaked creature standing over her.   
  
The doors to the Hospital Wing opened once more and Hermione was shocked to find Professor Dumbledore sweeping into the chamber. Behind him, to Hermione’s utter horror, was Professor Trelawney. Hermione had not seen the fraudulent Seer since third year, having opted out of her divinations class for Arithmancy with Professor Vector. She had hoped to never see her again.  
  
“Miss Granger,” Dumbledore said kindly, joining Professor McGonagall by her bedside. “I apologize for startling you. Nearly-Headless Nick saw Miss Patil escorting you through the halls and thought it best to inform me. Minerva spoke with me earlier this evening. She told me you’ve been experiencing panic attacks and dreams?”   
  
“Yes, Professor, I’m sure it’s nothing-”  
  
“Nothing?!” McGonagall exclaimed, “Nothing would not send Miss Brown to my chambers in the middle of the night, woken by your screams! She said you looked half-possessed, writhing in pain! She compared it to the Cruciatus Curse! That is not nothing, Miss Granger-”  
  
“Minerva,” Dumbledore said in a calming voice, “I’m sure Miss Granger was only being modest.” His kind eyes looked to her, but she saw a something troubling his usually controlled expression. “When did these dreams begin?” He asked.   
  
“Halloween,” Hermione answered, eyes darting to Professor Trelawney. “What is she doing here?” She feared the answer, dread creeping into her stomach, but she had to know.   
  
“I have asked Sybil here tonight,” Dumbledore began, gesturing for Trelawney to step closer. Her large eyes, only made larger by her spectacles, stared curiously at Hermione. “In hopes, she may offer her professional opinion. Now please, Miss Granger, if you would elaborate on the context of your dream.”   
  
“It’s just a dream,” she said quickly, realizing where this was going.  
  
“Some dreams are dreams,” Trelawney interrupted in he quivering, dreamy voice. “Some dreams are prophecy. Oneiromancy is one of the oldest and truest forms of divination.”   
  
“But most dreams are dreams,” she argued, jaw tightening at the insinuation.   
  
“Please, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore spoke. “I can relate to your hesitancy. I, once, believed the same as you - that dreams were dreams and prophecy hollow. Please trust me when I say I have been corrected on this matter, and I ask you trust me. We simply wish to help.” With a shaking sigh, Hermione nodded, eyes fixing on Dumbledore’s comforting, understanding gaze.   
  
“In the beginning, I couldn’t remember anything. I woke hyperventilating, panicked, pained, smelling lilacs and spring rain.”  
  
“Lilacs and spring rain, you say?” Trelawney repeated in her dramatic voice, large eyes darting about Hermione’s face, probing for information. The fourth year wondered, for a crazy moment, if the Divination professor was trying to quite literally see into her brain. It wouldn’t surprise her, considering Trelawney’s crazy antics.   
  
“Yes,” Hermione responded, trying to temper her irritation. If Dumbledore could have an open mind on the matter, it wasn’t above Hermione to do the same. “Does that mean anything?”  
  
“It could mean many things,” Trelawney responded, rubbing her pointy chin. Hermione could practically feel McGonagall roll her eyes, but the Transfiguration professor remained silent. “Please, continue, my dear.” With a stiff sigh, Hermione complied.   
  
“Tonight - tonight I remember everything. There was a glade surrounded by trees, and-” Hermione paused, a cold chill slipping down her spine as she remembered the dark creature.   
  
“Hermione?” McGonagall questioned, placing a long, thin hand on her shoulder. The pressure from the older witch’s grip roused her from paralysis.   
  
“I thought it was a Dementor,” she whispered, closing her eyes, darkness consuming her vision just as the creature had done in her dream. It was only when McGonagall moved her hand and wrapped an arm around her that Hermione realized she was shaking. “It wasn’t. It was pure blackness - no shape or form to catch light. I- I think I asked it a question, but it didn’t answer. It’s cloak swept over me and everything went dark.”   
  
Hermione opened her eyes, finding Professor Trelawney gaping wide-eyed, shrinking away from her. Dumbledore’s expression lost any form of gentleness, though she could see the gears turning in the Headmaster’s brilliant mind. McGonagall simply tightened her grip, holding Hermione in a half-hug.   
  
“Sybil?” Dumbledore turned to the Divinations Professor. “Have you ever heard of such a dream?”   
  
“Yes,” she confessed, “I fear to name these dreams as such, however.”   
  
“What do you mean?” McGonagall demanded. “Speak plainly!”   
  
“Minerva-” Dumbledore tried, but his words, for once, went unheeded by the Transfiguration professor.   
  
“If you have information that will help, say it, Sybil!”  
  
“It is information that would damn, I’m afraid,” Trelawney confessed, giving Hermione a sad smile, “Not help.”   
  
“Knowledge is power,” Hermione said, “If these dreams are something other than dreams, I need to know how to fight it.”   
  
“My dear,” Trelawney said in her dramatic drawl, looming over Hermione. “You cannot fight death.”


	4. Summer Breeze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good day, everyone! 
> 
> Firstly, I want to thank you all for your comments and notes. One of my favorite things about writing fanfiction is reading the reviews. The observations and theories I find in your reviews expand my own perspective on the story, showing me avenues and faults I hadn't realized before. So, thank you all for that excitement. It truly is riveting, interacting with everyone's thoughts and ideas. And thank you for the positive feedback, as well. I'm happy others are enjoying the story as much as I am. 
> 
> I'll be honest, this is one of my favorite chapters. I hope you like it as much as I do. 
> 
> Have a great day, 
> 
> Jekaterina

Hermione’s eyes fluttered open, mind blissfully absent of thought. She simply stared at the unfamiliar ceiling above until a small sniffle jostled her attention. She tilted her head to the side. Madame Pomfrey was up early tending to a Hufflepuff in the next bed over. The poor girl was almost in tears as black liquid sprayed from her nostrils. A backfired jinx, Hermione theorized. Within a few moments, Madam Pomfrey managed to quell the geyser into a trickle. The damage was done, however, the liquid staining the soft, absorbent cotton, turning it from pure white to a shiny black. That’s when Hermione remembered the previous night - her screams breaking through her Silencing Charm, waking in a cold sweat, shaking uncontrollably. She remembered the scared look on Lavender Brown’s face and the startling ease in which Parvati Patil took charge. She remembered McGonagall’s worry, Dumbledore’s kind understanding, and Trelawney’s large eyes staring with a sense of pity and fascination. She remembered never wanting to sleep again.  
  
Funny how easily sleep took her. A credit to Madame Pomfrey’s potions. The dream that loomed in the back of her mind seemed like a fading memory. The dark creature was a distant blur, the glade a place far, far away.  
  
An omen of death.  
  
How ridiculous.  
  
Perhaps she could have a laugh with Harry later, the boy having been on the bud end of Trelawney mad predictions. There was obviously a more logical explanation - one less dramatic. It could be stress, or fear, or anxiety. Professor Dumbledore promised to look into the matter before escorting Trawleney from the Hospital Wing, perhaps sensing Hermione’s growing agitation. Professor McGonagall left shortly after, ensuring Hermione that Trelawney was simply pushing for attention. Still, Trelawney’s words danced in the back of her mind, whispering,  
  
“ _You cannot fight death_.”  
  
Hermione rose, unwilling to stay put a moment more. Madame Pomfrey fussed, but she insured the healer she was quite alright, having gotten a good night's sleep thanks to the sleeping draught. The healer gave her one more vial for later before releasing Hermione. It was midday and her stomach yearned to break her fast. She darted for the Gryffindor table, but as soon a Harry laid eyes on her he jumped to his feet, dragging her away from the Hall.  
  
“Harry,” she whined, trying to reach for at least a roll of bread before he forcefully moved her to the entrance hall, “Harry, please, I’ve had an awful night. Whatever it is can wait! I need food-”  
  
“Dragons,” he said suddenly.  
  
“I’m sorry?”  
  
“The first tasks. It’s Dragons.”  
  
Hermione lost her appetite.  
  
“Dragons?” She gasped, “Dragons?! What are we supposed to do about dragons? Kill them?!”  
  
“No, we just have to get passed them. They’ll be guarding something.” Harry recounted the night before, how Hagrid led him to the dragon’s enclosure, how Ron’s brother, Charlie, was there, and about the types of dragons they had. He then discussed his conversation with Sirius and Hermione felt a headache brewing. They spent that Sunday in the library, trying to think of something to get past a dragon. Most of the books were on how to care for dragons, however. Nothing described how to get past them or fight them. Harry insisted Sirius insisted a simple spell would do, but Hermione learned long ago being friends with Harry Potter was never simple. When Viktor came to sulk in the library they retreated to the common room. They read on and on, but still, no answers came.  
  
Even after Harry retired, Hermione stayed up most of the night reading in bed. In truth, she was afraid to shut her eyes. Whether it was the face of a dragon or the mysterious, dark figure, neither seemed appealing dream-fellows. She studied a few charms and transfiguration spells that might help, but nothing Harry would be able to learn by Tuesday. She was perusing Albus Dumbledore’s 12 Uses for Dragons Blood when Parvati stirred in her bed.  
  
“Hermione?” She called, her voice groggy from sleep. She sat up in bed, tilting her head. “You’re still reading?”  
  
“Is that really so shocking?” Hermione quipped. Parvati chuckled a bit, but soon her face became somber.  
  
“You need to sleep.”  
  
“You saw what happens when I sleep.”  
  
“It’s not every night though, right?” Parvati said, encouragingly. “I’m sure-”  
  
“It’s been happening since Halloween,” she confessed and wondered briefly why she said it. Parvati, while a decent enough person, was not someone Hermione normally spoke with. She was Lavender Brown’s gigglemate. They sat and spoke of boys, the latest hair potion, which Weird Sister was fitter, and so on. “I’ve been using a Silencing Charm, so I…wouldn’t wake you.”  
  
“A Silencing Charm?” Parvati gasped, “But we don’t learn that until fifth year.”  
  
“Professor Flitwick isn’t hard to encourage,” Hermione explained. “And I had to think of something. I just…” She paused with a shake of her head. “I just need to focus on the first task.” To Hermione’s surprise, Parvati stood, joining her on her bed, eyes skimming over the books. Her eyes grew wide at the titles, recognizing the obvious theme.  
  
“Dragons?!” Pavarti gasped, horrified. It was obvious she was trying to remain quiet, but Hermione couldn't help but cringe at her volume. Luckily, their dormmates slept on, blissfully unaware.    
  
“We have to get past one,” Hermione confessed. She was making quite a few confessions that night, it would seem, but it felt nice to talk to someone, to confide, to trust. “There are a few things I might try, but Harry - he’s not going to be able to learn any of these in one day.”  
  
“I thought you were competing against Harry,” Parvati said, and Hermione gave a little huff.  
  
“Harry didn’t put his name in,” she insisted, but her fellow Gryffindor looked hesitant. “He didn’t want to compete. I’m in this mess because of my own pride and stupidity, but Harry can’t even say that. I’m not going to let him blunder in blind just because some old men want a good show. He didn’t abandon me first year when that troll could have well taken off my head. I’m won’t abandon him now.” For a moment Parvati said nothing. Their eyes met and she simply stared at Hermione quietly. Then, she said,  
  
“You’re a really good friend, Hermione.” Parvati gave Hermione a smile and placed a hand on her arm, giving it an affectionate squeezing before moving to her own bunk. “Good luck. I’ll be cheering for you both on Tuesday.”  
  
“Thank you, Parvati,” she said, giving the girl a smile. “For everything.”

Hermione needed all the luck she could at the moment, especially when Harry compelled her to help him learn the Summoning Charm for the first task.   
  
“Concentrate, Harry, concentrate!”  
  
“What d’you think I’m trying to do?” Harry barked angrily. “A great big dragon keeps popping up in my head for some reason…Okay, try again…”  
  
Hermione gave a frustrated huff as he performed the Accio Charm once more, but the power just wasn’t there. His plan was sound, at least. Using his broom to evade an angry dragon. Play to your strengths, and all that. Just so long as he could _get_ his broom.

After hours of practicing, Harry wanted to skip Divination, (Hermione could hardly blame him, now being on the wrong end of Trelawney’s ‘you’re going to die’ predictions) but Hermione wasn’t about to miss Arithmancy. As she made her way to class she saw a few Beauxbatons students out on the ground having a free period. Fleur Delacour sat with a dark-haired Beauxbatons boy and a red-headed Beauxbatons girl. While the boy chatted animatedly Fleur sat in silence, blue eyes distracted and dazed. Hermione supposed the Veela’s worries were aligned with her own, thoughts of dragons and fire. She wondered what the Frenchwoman might do - something distant, she assumed. Nothing that would get her hands dirty. A charm, she was sure. Charming something wouldn’t be a problem for Fleur Delacour.  
  
For a moment Hermione wondered just how much Fleur’s grandmother’s Veela blood affected her. She was obviously beautiful, none could argue against it, but Veela’s attraction was more than just simple beauty. Hermione remembered how Harry and Ron acted at the Quidditch World Cup, willing to fall off a balcony just to gain a Veela's attention. Veela magic was something entirely unwizard, something primal, she assumed, remembering the rage of the Bulgarian Veelas. Then, a horrific thought entered Hermione’s head. The morning of Halloween, while bickering with Ron, he made that declarative statement that started the whole mess.  
  
“ _I could do that_!” He proclaimed, eyes dazedly watching Fleur Delacour enter the hall. If the Veela hadn’t appeared at that moment, if she hadn’t had that effect on Ron, trying to puff out his chest and spread his peacock feathers, would Hermione have submitted her name? Would she have simply sat with the audience, cheering on Harry, rather than facing a dragon? She knew these were silly thoughts. What was done was done - what's more, and she couldn’t discount her own foolishness that fateful morning. She chose to show off, but a small part of her still blamed Fleur Delacour. And deep down, she knew her blame didn’t lie with her effect on Ron, but for the strange, irrational effect Fleur had on her own state of mind.  
  
It was a bitter pill to swallow and the thought bounced around in her head all through Arithmancy. Surely she wasn’t affected by a Veela’s thrall, was she? No, it only affected men. For a moment she thought jealousy, perhaps? It was the more apt explanation, and somewhat true besides, but also not quite satisfactory. Her lack of sleep was the only thing affecting her at that moment and she couldn’t wait to take the sleeping draft and safely shut her eyes. That would not come to pass until near two in the morning when Harry finally mastered the summoning charm.  
  
“That’s better, Harry, that’s loads better,” Hermione said, hiding a yawn behind her hand.  
  
“Well, now we know what to do next time I can’t manage a spell,” Harry quipped, “threaten me with a dragon. Right…” He raised his wand for one more go. “Accio Dictionary!” The book was ripped from Hermione’s hands and Harry caught it with a flourish. She found she was too tired to care. “Hermione, you said we’re in this together, but we’ve been focusing on me for the last two days. What’re you going to do?”  
  
“Don’t worry, Harry,” Hermione smiled, “I worked it out last night. I’ve had a lot of time to read, as of late. For now, I need sleep.” With that, they parted ways. She drank the sleeping potion greedily and fell to her bed, reveling in the soft, cushy pillows. Relief filled her as she was finally allowed to drift into dreamless sleep.  
  
When she woke, Hermione found the morning passed without her. She was roused by Professor McGonagall just before noon.  
  
“Come now, Miss Granger. You’ll need to make your way to the first task soon.”  
  
“What,” she said groggily, “What about…my lessons?”  
  
“I informed your professors you wouldn’t be attending lectures this morning, giving specific instructions to the other girls you were allowed to sleep. I would rather you miss lessons than be sleep deprived for…what is to come.” Hermione simply nodded, rising from bed. “Here,” Professor McGonagall presented her with black robes, looking more like fitness attire found in muggle shops. “I thought you and Mr. Potter would be more comfortable in flexible attire.”

Hermione gave her a grateful smile and was left to change. Gryffindor colors accented the black clothes, red sleeves and yellow trim stretching down the arms and legs, though it was the Hogwarts crest featured over her heart, not the Gryffindor lion. The material was light and breathed rather well. It might help in the smothering atmosphere a dragon’s heat caused. Hermione was suddenly thankful she wouldn’t have to prance about in her usual pleated skirt. She made her way down to the common room, finding Harry waiting for her with Professor McGonagall. His robes were similar to her own, only that he wore his Quidditch pads over them. A smart move, considering his strategy.  
  
“Are you two ready?” Professor McGonagall said, looking anxious.  
  
“Yeah,” Harry said, “Yeah. Right, Hermione?”  
  
She could hear the slight desperation in his voice, hoping to hear something encouraging. Till that moment, Hermione hadn’t felt all too nervous, not since hearing the word, “Dragons,” pass Harry’s lips. Perhaps it was the sleep deprivation, perhaps it was the distraction of helping Harry, but it finally seemed to register in her mind that she was about to face a dragon. A live, fire-breathing dragon. Her body stiffened so badly she could hardly squeeze enough air out of her lungs to reply,  
  
“Yeah.” She numbly followed McGonagall out to the grounds with Harry close behind.  
  
“Now, don’t panic,” McGonagall began, “just keep a cool head…We’ve got wizards standing by to control the situation if it gets out of hand.” The older witched looked so frazzled Hermione suspected her little speech was more for her benefit than for them. “The main thing is just to do your best, and nobody will think any worse of you…Are you two alright?”  
  
“Yes,” Harry answered quickly, “Yes, I’m fine.” Hermione didn’t answer, chest still tight with anticipation. They walked to the edge of the forest, passed Hagrid’s hut, to a giant tent.  
  
“You two are to go in here with the other champions,” Professor McGonagall said, in a quavering voice, “and wait for your turn. Mr. Bagman is in there…he’ll be telling you the - the procedure…Good luck.”  
  
“Thanks,” Harry responded in a flat, distant tone. He walked into the tent, and Hermione gave a stiff sigh before following suit.  
  
The tent was fairly small. All the champions held their own corner. Viktor Krum’s eyes instantly found her as she walked in. He looked surlier than usual, brow furrowed as he averted his gaze. He appeared a bit flushed but she supposed it was rather stuffy in the tent. Harry was kidnapped by Bagman - the only one in the tent who appeared the least bit excited. Harry seemed to be ignoring the wizard, practicing the wand motion for _Accio_ at his side. Fleur Delacour sat in the corner on a low wooden stool. She wore the same fretful face and didn’t appear half as confident as during the Weighing of the Wands. Hermione supposed dragons wouldn’t be that thing to make her like Hogwarts. In this regard, Hermione could hardly blame her. Those blue eyes found hers and Hermione couldn’t find it in herself to feel angry at the moment. She gave the blond a small smile which, to her surprise, Fleur returned.  
  
“Well, now we’re all here - time to fill you in!” Bagman exclaimed brightly. “When the audience has assembled, I’m going to be offering each of you this bag” - he shook a small purple sack. Hermione thought she saw something move inside. “From which you will each select a small model of the thing you are about to face! There are different - er - varieties, you see. And I have to tell you something else too…ah, yes…your task is to collect the golden egg!”  
  
Harry grabbed her hand after Bagman had finished and pulled her to the corner. He looked a bit green, his jaw clenched tightly.  
  
“You have a plan, yeah?” he asked, “I know you’ve been busy helping me-”  
  
“Don’t I always, Harry?” she laughed half-heartedly, giving him a stiff nod. “Though I’m not sure what will happen if I puke before uttering a single spell.”  
  
“Glad I’m not the only one,” Harry commented, giving her a warm smile. For a small moment, everything was okay. It was just her and Harry, comforting each other. Her anxieties flooded back upon hearing hundreds upon hundreds of pairs of feet passing the tent, jubilation and cheers, laughing and jokes. There was a clear separation between the joyous crowd and the somber champions as if an invisible wall separated them. Then, without waiting a second more, Bagman opened the purple silk sack.  
  
“Ladies first,” he said, offering it to Fleur Delacour. Hermione saw her fingers shake as she reached into the bag and withdrew a tiny, perfect model of a dragon. Welsh Green, from the look of it.  
  
“Aw,” Hermione cooed at the tiny figure as it curled in Fleur’s palm, leaning over to see it properly. It was actually quite adorable. She looked up and found Fleur, bemused and smiling. Suddenly remembering their last encounter, in which the blond had discovered her ticklish nature, Hermione took a step back.  
  
“The real things aren’t as cute,” Bagman laughed, holding the bag to her. “But don’t worry, Miss Granger! You get your own!” Hermione let out a humorless laugh. She reached into the bag and her heart gave a little jump when she felt something cling to her hand. She supposed, like the wand, the dragon chose the champion. She pulled her hand from the bag, seeing a blueish-gray Swedish Short-Snout clinging to her palm, with the number ‘1’ on it’s neck. Her heart stopped.  
  
“I’m going first,” she whispered to no one in particular. Harry put an arm around her shoulder as the Short-Snout began butting its horn into her palm. Krum drew the Chinese Fireball and Harry the Hungarian Horntail, but Hermione’s eyes simply stared at the small dragon in her hand. What did she know about Swedish Short-Snouts? Their average length was twenty-two feet, they are native to Sweden, specifically the mountainous regions, and they produced the hottest fire among dragon kind.  
  
“Well, there you are!” Bagman exclaimed, “You have each pulled out the dragon you will face, and the numbers refer to the order in which you are to take on the dragons, do you see? Now, I’m going to have to leave you in a moment, because I’m commentating. Miss Granger, you’re first, just go out into the enclosure when you hear a whistle, all right? Now…Harry…could I have a quick word? Outside?”  
  
“Er…yes.” Harry hesitated for a moment but withdrew his arm from Hermione’s shoulder and followed Bagman out of the tent. Hermione let out a shaky breath, eyes returning to the miniature dragon now jumping in her hand.  
  
“Are you alright?” Hermione spun around, finding Viktor Krum looming over her, that strange pout on his face.  
  
“Are any of us?” She asked. He nodded in agreement.  
  
“Good luck,” he said simply and he gave her a rare smile. She returned it, happy to have all the luck she could get.  
  
“Thank you, Viktor. You, as well.”  
  
A whistle blew in the distance. Her heart dropped at the sound but her feet automatically moved to the tent’s entrance. Her eyes darted to Fleur, those crystal blue eyes watching her as she went. She held the gaze for a moment before leaving the tent. She found Harry and flung her arms around him.  
  
“Good luck,” he mumbled in her hair.  
  
“You too,” she said. “I’ll be waiting for you afterward, hopefully not over-cooked.” He chuckled, releasing her as they moved in opposite directions. She walked through the forest, the miniature dragon retreating into her pocket. There was a gap in a giant enclosure. She walked through it and was greeted with hundreds of cheering faces. People roared as she moved forward, but all Hermione saw was the Swedish Short-Snout crouching defensively over a clutch of bluish-gray eggs and one golden egg, shining from the spotlights illuminating the enclosure. The Short-Snout’s eyes found her instantly and opened its mouth. With a jolt Hermione jumped into action, diving behind a large boulder just as a jet of bright blue fire erupted from the dragon. Gasps and screams flew from the crowd, and Hermione withdrew her wand from its holster. After a calming, deep breath, she whispered,  
  
“ _Calamitatis_ ,” and ran her wand down the front of her body. A cold, icy sensation dripped down, following the path of her wand. When the feeling subsided, she raised her hand and found it wasn’t there anymore. Rather, it looked just like it’s surroundings. Half of the crowd shouted in panic, having not seen her cast the charm. Even Ludo Bagman said,  
  
“Did the Short-Snout get her?!” in alarm, but soon he announced, “No folks! We have confirmation she’s alive!” A blast of cheers rang around her but she ignored them the best she could, keeping her wand poised as she saddled the boulder, peaking out at the Short-Snout. “It seems Miss Granger has cast a very complicated disillusionment charm on herself! She seems to like charms quite a lot!”  
  
She released an indignant huffed at the quip. She was never going to live that down.  
  
The Short-Snout whipped it’s head about, trying to locate her. Hermione knew she couldn’t simply walk right up to the eggs. The dragon would hear or smell her. She needed a distraction, something enticing, something active to keep the dragon’s attention. She pointed her wand at a large rock a few feet away and whipped her wand down, diagonally to the left, and straight right. Instantly the rock shifted from a simple rock to a little beagle.  
  
“Wait, is that a dog?!” Ludo Bagman exclaimed, still unable to see Hermione. The beagle barked and ran away from Hermione. The Short-Snout instantly snapped its head to the dog, blue fire rolling threateningly in its mouth. For a split second, Hermione felt guilty, knowing the dog would be charred to a crisp. Then again, she thought as she moved around the edge of the enclosure, it was just a rock. The dog bounced about the other end of the ring, keeping the dragon occupied with its barks and growls, allowing Hermione to inch to the dragon’s left side. She needed to wait until the dragon moved for the dog, and then she could dive for the egg and make a run for it. She stopped just outside of the dragon’s wingspan. She needed the dragon to move, just an inch or so. She crouched and waited as the dog continued to provoke the dragon. The Short-Snout bobbed its head at the dog, almost chicken-like, and roared, trying to get the dog to flee. The dog remained unmoved, taking a few steps closer. Finally having enough of the annoyance, the Short-Snout jumped towards the beagle, breathing its blue flame.  
  
At once Hermione sprang up, rushing towards the clutch of eggs. She immediately felt warmth returned to her body and, horrified, realized her disillusionment charm had fled.  
  
“There she is!” Ludo Bagman screamed. “She’s making a run for it!” The crowd screamed, which caused the Short-Snout to raise its head from the charred rock, small bits of fur burning on the edges. Just as Hermione dove for the golden egg, her arms wrapping around it, she came nose to nose with the dragon. The dragon keepers screamed, rushing into the enclosure, but the Short-Snout already had fire rolling in its mouth and, with a shriek, Hermione threw her wand up at the dragon’s nose and screamed,  
  
“ _Calida Aura_!”  
  
Just as the blue flames rushed from the Short-Snout’s jaws the spell pushed from her wand. A hot breeze pinned Hermione to the boulder behind her, one arm holding her wand in the air, the other maintaining her death grip on the golden egg. She released a determined scream, trying to keep the spell going, pushing against the ice blue flames. Streaks of fire whipped at her arms, legs, and face, but she continued to focus on the charm. Her eyes darted down, seeing a curve in the ledge beneath her. With a kick she dove for it, rolling down into the crevice, the blue flames chasing after her. She hugged the egg to her body, wand pointing towards the opening, expecting to see the Short-Snout’s horned face any second. Instead, she heard a collection of voices scream “Stupify!” There was a crash and the scurrying of feet. A head of red hair poked into her hiding spot.  
  
“Blimey, Hermione!” Charlie Weasley yelled, reaching for her. His strong arms lifted her out of the hole and upon seeing the champion alive the crowd burst into roaring applause.  
  
“She’s done it! Miss Granger has gotten her egg!” Her eyes looked up at the screaming audience. A gaggle of red-shirted Gryffindors began shouting, “All Hail the Queen!” led by two tall and lanky redheads, acting as conductors to a chorus. Realizing the danger had passed, adrenaline fled Hermione’s body and she slumped against Charlie.  
  
“Was that a Flame-Freeze charm?!” Charlie asked, guiding Hermione from the enclosure. “Where did you learn that? I didn’t even know it until my dragon taming certification.”  
  
“I,” Hermione breathed, still clutching her egg for dear life, “I read it in a book.”  
  
“A book?!” He exclaimed, “You’ve never performed it before?!”  
  
“No,” she admitted, “But I’m happy to see it works.” Charlie gave her a lopsided grin, squeezing her shoulders affectionately.  
  
“Me too!” He led her from the cheering and chanting of, “All Hail the Queen,” towards Madame Pomfrey’s infirmary station.  
  
“Miss Granger!” Professor McGonagall rushed towards her, pushing passed Professor Moody and Professor Flitwick. “Don’t you ever think of doing something like that again!” she yelled, shaking Hermione’s shoulders frantically. “I almost had a heart attack! First, you disappeared, and then you almost get roasted like a pig!”  
  
“That was beautiful charm work, Miss Granger!” Flitwick exclaimed, “A Flame-Freeze charm at your age?! I’ve never seen such a thing!”  
  
“Don’t you go encouraging her!” McGonagall exclaimed, pointing a threatening finger down at Flitwick. “Come on, dear. To the first aid tent!” Hermione nodded, suddenly feeling those burns. Though the Flame-Freeze charm worked as the book reported, she wasn’t prepared for the actual thing. Instead of feeling like a summer’s breeze the heat from the fire felt more like an oven. The spell had not protected her entirely, flames sneaking around the charm. She had long, blistering burns down her arms, legs, and one side of her face. Madame Pomfrey rushed to her.  
  
“Dragons!” She raved, her voice dripping with disgust. “What a bloody brilliant idea! Not like we don’t have enough harmful creatures, what with Dementors last year, a Basilisk the year before and now Dragons and Hagrid's bloody Blast-Ended Skrewts! Come over here, Granger! No, they don’t look too deep at all. That was a brilliant charm you performed. I can’t imagine what may have happened if not for your quick wand.”  
  
“Professor McGonagall said something about a roasted pig,” she said before she could filter herself, “I suppose I’d have an apple in my mouth about now.” Madame Pomfrey’s head shot up at the comment and for a brief second Hermione thought she could see the hint of amusement dancing on her face.  
  
“Well, as it is, I have no apples. Only this.” She proceeded to dab a strange purple liquid that smoked and stung on her wounds, but they healed instantly. “Wait here a moment before getting your score, Granger.” With that, Madame Pomfrey left the tent.  
  
Hermione breathed her first sigh of relief that day - what felt like the first sigh of relief since Halloween. She had done it. She had faced the dragon and got the golden egg. The first task was over and Hermione, despite her opinion on the tournament, swelled with pride. That morning she thought she might fumble, or falter, or fail and have to be rescued by the keepers, not having completed her task. But the heavy weight of the egg in her lap proved she could do this. For the first time, Hermione felt she wasn’t drowning. She felt maybe, just maybe, she could do this. She could dream the dream of winning the Triwizard Cup.  
  
With a deep breath, Hermione stood and made her way back to the enclosure. The second she stepped into view the crowd cheered again. The Short-Snout had been escorted away and Hermione could see the judges panel where the five people sat in raised seats draped in gold.  
  
“And here she is - the Hogwarts champion, Hermione Granger!” Ludo Bagman called, issuing another roar of applause. “We just got the full story of her endeavor from the dragon keepers! Miss Granger successfully used the Disillusionment Charm to conceal herself from the Swedish Short-Snout and transfigured a rock into a dog to distract the dragon, making her attempt for the egg! Though she managed to retrieve the egg the Short-Snout saw her and attacked! Miss Granger, however, was prepared with a Flame-Freeze charm and managed to hold the dragon off until the keepers could arrive! Now, out of a possible score of ten points per judge, let’s see what the scores are!”  
  
With a large hand, Madame Maxime was first to respond, sending a long silver ribbon that wove the number ‘10’ into the air. A roar of applause greeted Hermione, and she felt her heart beat rapidly in her chest. A ten?! She hadn’t expected that from the Beauxbatons headmistress, assuming she would reserve top points for Fleur Delacour.  
  
Mr. Crouch came next, shooting the number ‘9’, as well. Hermione couldn’t help but smile as the chorus of, “All Hail the Queen’ started back up again, clutching her golden egg tightly to her chest.  
  
Dumbledore was next and sent Hermione a small wink before sending another ‘9’ into the air.  
  
Ludo Bagman gave a silver ‘8’, waving at the crowd as they cheered once more.  
  
Karkaroff glared down at Hermione before raising his wand and a silver ‘6’ slipped from the end. The crowd stomped and roared and Hermione left the grounds, heading straight back to the first aid tent as the dragon keepers moved the Welsh Green into position. She had just made it into the tent when a whistle blew, and Ludo Bagman exclaimed,  
  
“One down, three to go! Miss Delacour, if you please!” Hermione listened to the bout, Ludo Bagman’s voice the only illustration she had of the events. “Oh, I’m not sure that was wise!” He shouted, oddly gleeful as the crowd gasped and cheered. “Oh…Nearly! Careful now…good lord, I thought she’d had it then!” There was nothing - nothing for ten nerve-wracking minutes. For a wild moment, she wondered if Fleur could transform into that harpy-like creature, similar to the Bulgarian Veelas at the Quidditch World Cup. Her thoughts were interrupted by a roar from the crowd. Moments later Fleur Delacour walked into the tent. She was shaking from head to foot. Hermione couldn’t help but notice a wet spot on the tail of her skirt, charred at the end. Fleur’s eyes shot to Hermione, eyebrows furrowing.  
  
“Bagman was right,” Hermione said out of nowhere. “The smaller ones were much cuter.” She didn’t know where it came from. She usually reserved quips for the professors and people older than herself. Her peers had never really cared for her comments in the past, knowledgeable or comical. They would jeer or tell her to stop being a know-it-all. But suddenly, through her shock, Fleur Delacour smiled at her. Not smirked, but smiled. She even laughed, and Hermione felt a quite different reaction to the blond witch than the usual frustration. Quite different. She felt satisfaction bloom in her heart and more pride in making Fleur Delacour smile than getting a hundred golden eggs. The emotion was shocking. It was overwhelming. And for a brief moment, Hermione wondered what it meant.  
  
Madame Pomfrey came rushing up to Fleur, guiding her further into the tent and away from Hermione. She didn’t see the other girl for quite a while.  
Krum entered soon after, cursing angrily under his breath. She didn’t think a well-timed joke would cheer his mood. Then, as the next whistle blew, she realized in horror it was Harry’s turn. She shot up and ran for tent’s entrance but Madame Pomfrey stopped her, suddenly appearing by the entrance. She would have to figure out how she managed that, someday.  
  
“Not so fast, Granger! You’ll see Potter soon, no doubt. He’s in and out of the Hospital Wing as often as you, nowadays. Now sit!”  
  
“But Harry-”  
  
“Sit!” With a huff and a stomp of her foot, she moved away from the door. She wouldn’t sit, though. Not if she could help it. Instead, she gazed at where the other champions rested, each enclosed in their own little area. She wondered if she should make some sort of attempt to speak to them. This tournament was about international cooperation, after all. She thought of speaking with Viktor Krum but remembered how upset he was upon entering the tent. It wouldn’t be a kindness, approaching him when he was angry.  
  
The only other option was Fleur Delacour but after that flutter of butterflies in her stomach, Hermione wasn’t sure she was ready for another encounter. Her heart stopped when a vicious roar echoed from the enclosure, and shouts of surprise could be heard under Ludo Bagman’s commentary. Hermione rushed for the doors, ignoring Madame Pomfrey. Outside she could see Harry high in the air and took a dive that made her gasp. He disappeared from her sight. She tried rushing to see what happened but a hand grabbed her shoulder. She turned to yell at Madame Pomfrey but found Fleur Delacour instead.  
  
“You already ‘ad your dragon, no?” She commented, raising a thin eyebrow.  
  
“I know that well enough!” She huffed but jumped upon seeing Harry above the tree line once more, and another dive, and another gasp from the audience.  
“Your boyfriend will be fine,” Fleur said dismissively, “Zis is ‘is battle, ‘owever.”  
  
“I just-” Hermione stuttered, suddenly fearing the bout of silence from the enclosure. “I’m just so worried I could rip my hair out! I - wait,” Hermione’s eyes darted to Fleur. “Boyfriend? Are you referring to that ridiculous Rita Skeeter article?”  
  
“Oui,” Fleur said in a stiff manner.  
  
“I’ve told you before, he’s not my boyfriend,” Hermione said, cheeks flushing. “Harry’s like the brother I never had.”  
  
“Oh, please!” Fleur laughed viciously. “You ‘re always ‘anging off of ‘im, clinging to ‘is arm, touching ‘im, always in the library wiz ‘im. And now you swoon and moan in worry for ze little boy who lived.”  
  
“How dare you!” Hermione shrieked, “Just because I - I grab his arm or hold his hand doesn’t mean he’s my boyfriend! He’s my best friend, one of the only ones I have! And he’s facing a dragon right now!” She threw a shaking finger to the enclosure. “Or have you forgotten how terrifying it is to stare at a face that can breathe fire at?!” Fleur’s smirk dropped at this, eyes narrowing.  
  
“Look at that!” Ludo Bagman’s voice suddenly boomed as screams and applause rang through the air. “Will you look at that! Our youngest champion is quickest to get his egg! Well, this is going to shorten the odds on Mr. Potter!” Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. She couldn’t care at the moment how annoyed Fleur looked. With a huff, the Frenchwoman turned on her heel and marched back into the tent. Hermione waited there for Harry and, the second he appeared in front of the first aid tent, she threw her arms around him.


	5. French Tart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all! 
> 
> Sorry about the delay. Between school, work, my apartment building catching on fire, moving into a house with some buddies, and preparing for a Spartan race, I haven't had a lot of time to write. 
> 
> In actuality, the main reason this chapter was postponed was actually because of all of your wonderful comments. You see, I had originally written out 10 chapters of The Mortal Coil ready to post and gearing to go. I thought this would give me plenty of room to finish the last five chapters while posting once a week. You beautiful minds, however, made me realize this story can be far more in-depth and developed than I had originally written it, and that you all deserved that story. 
> 
> In the comments, I found statements pondering what would happen. What role would Madame Pomphry play in Hermione's dream issues? What would Professor Trelawney do next? Where the hell was Ron? Those kinds of comments made me realize the development of the plot was being rushed. There were so many layers laid out with no thought or development, and some that were going too fast, especially Hermione and Fleur's relationship. 
> 
> Some of you may be groaning at that last one, just screaming, "Kiss already!" We're getting to it. I promise. Soon. With plenty of development afterward. The growth of the relationship doesn't end with the first kiss. 
> 
> So I will try and get the next chapter up as soon as possible. I can't promise how soon, because I would rather promise quality than quantity. It's what you all deserve. 
> 
> Thank you for your patience and kind comments. Enjoy the chapter. 
> 
> Jekaterina

Watching Harry and Ron wrestle an overzealous Pigwidgeon, hooting and screeching in Ron’s arms while Harry attached his letter to Sirius, Hermione knew then and there she would never understand the complexities governing male friendship. For weeks, Harry and Ron acted like children, refusing to speak, both ranting and raving to Hermione of the other, neither willing to admit his own vulnerability. Now, after nothing more than, “Forget it,” it was as if the calamity never happened. Harry filled Ron in on Sirius’ theories, who affirmed them wholeheartedly, now being the supportive friend Harry wanted from the start. The sight filled her with relief, with joy, and with a guilty sense of jealousy. Instead of interrupting, instead of butting in, Hermione leaned back on the railing. Giving in to the amusement of two teenage boys wrestling a tiny, enthused owl, she allowed herself to laugh.  
  
Hermione felt like she could breathe. Her eyes shifted over the ground, thinking of the day’s events. The dragon was evaded. The Golden Egg claimed. It was three months until the second task and her oddball group of friends were back together. For a moment, she enjoyed the feeling of simple relief.  
  
“There’s no way any of the other tasks are going to be that dangerous, how could they be?” Ron said as he took Pigwidgeon to the window, the owl hooting and curling in anticipation. “You know what? I reckon one of you could win this tournament. I’m serious.” Hermione’s sense of relief vanished at the words, realizing she would have to be the voice of reason once more. Shaking her head, she leaned against the stone wall behind her, folding her arms.  
  
“We’ve got a long way to go before we finish this tournament,” she said, “If that was the first task, I hate to think what’s coming.”  
  
“Right little ray of sunshine, aren’t you?” Ron responded. “You and Professor Trelawney should get together sometime.” Hermione felt her stomach twist as Ron threw Pigwidgeon off the Owlry tower. Now that the first task was passed, now that all of her waking thoughts didn’t revolve around the fear of roasting alive, Hermione dreaded the inevitable necessity for sleep and what waited in her dreams. There was no sleeping draught for her that night, no escape from the glade. She could feel the anxiety building already, remembering the crippling grip around her rib cage, hyperventilating, unable to breathe. She thought of telling Harry and Ron, thought of reaching out for help, comfort, support. Harry had enough trouble in his life, however, and Ron wouldn't know how to comfort her, she knew. He wasn't gifted with empathy. Ron was inclined towards evasion, helping one laugh to forget their woes. A special ability, to be sure, but not one that could save Hermione from her own dreams. All thought of confessing her troubles fled as Ron sighed, shaking his head at the departing owl.  
  
“Well, we’d better get downstairs for the surprise party,” Ron said decisively, “Fred and George should have nicked enough food from the kitchens by now.”  
  
Swallowing her plea, Hermione followed the boys to the Gryffindor common room where they were greeted by a thunder of cheers. Cakes, flagons of pumpkin juice and butterbeer littered every table and Lee Jordan lit off Filibuster’s Fireworks, polluting the air with smoke. Through the haze, Hermione made out a banner drawn by Dean Thomas, depicting Hermione’s Flame-Freeze Charm and Harry zooming around the Horntail’s head.  
  
In an instant, Hermione was surrounded by Gryffindors, most notably the girls from her own dormitory. Parvati, to Hermione’s shock, drew her into a fierce embrace, frantically giving Hermione a blow-by-blow of her panic attack during the first task. Lavender laughed, patting Parvati on the back while the Patil twin slowly squeezed the air from Hermione’s lungs. Hermione wasn’t sure what was more uncomfortable - the hug, Lavender’s obnoxious laugh, or the subtle sound of Parvati beginning to cry. She was about to panic, about to attempt to comfort her dormmate, albeit awkwardly, but Hermione froze when she caught sight of Harry opening his egg to a crowd of Gryffindor boys.  
  
The most horrible scream Hermione had ever heard pierced her ears, filling every audible space in the common room. Everyone screamed, but none compared to the wailing cry of the Golden Egg.  
  
“Shut it!” Someone screamed through the screeching, though she wasn’t sure who. Hermione was too busy trying to shove her fingers as far as she could into her ears. Finally, Harry managed to close the egg. Silence rang as everyone slowly recovered from the concussive volume.  
  
“What was that?” Seamus Finnigan exclaimed. “Sounded like a banshee…Maybe you’ve got to get past one of those, next!” Hermione cringed at the suggestion. Honestly, she was tired of being reminded of Trelawney’s shaky voice.  
  
“ _You cannot fight death_.”  
  
What drivel. Besides, Banshees only cried in such a way when a charge of their ancestral house was about to die. As far as Hermione knew, she had little to no Irish heritage to brag of. There was no Banshee haunting about, looking over her shoulder, waiting for the inevitable. Still, Hermione grew quiet, feeling the presence of the dark figure looming over her shoulder. She withdrew from the conversation, the party, the festivities. She took the first opportunity to retreat to her dorm. The only one to note this was Harry, who gave her a small wave and let her be. She heard an uproar of laughter from the common room and smiled as she climbed the staircase, happy that others were experiencing happiness, joy, and relief. She had been relieved just hours ago, at the top of the Owlry, the cool breeze of November brushing her cheeks, her two best friends friends again, chatting animatedly over a hyperactive owl. Now, Hermione faced the prospect of sleep filled with haunting dreams; a dark glen, a figure devoid of light, and the smell of lilac and spring rain.

The dark figure was absent that night, and every night since the first task. Sometimes, Hermione still dreamed of the meadow, silent, and void of light. Laying in the grass, surrounded by emptiness, Hermione would stare at a pitch black sky. Other nights, she couldn’t recall her dreams. She would have a vague idea that she had dreamed, a fleeting recollection, a small wisp of remembrance, but that wisp vanished as soon as she rose to begin her day.  
  
December brought the chill of winter to Hogwarts. Hermione was thankful for the carpeted dorms, as stone or tile would have been unbearable to bare feet. While the castle had thick walls and cushy carpets to boast of, Hermione couldn’t imagine it was pleasant for the other schools. Durmstrang sat on the water, surrounded by ice, only protected by the timber of their vessel. And if Fleur Delacour thought November cold and depressing, the Veela must have been completely frozen all the way through at this point, the small carriage shaking in the harsh winds every night.  
  
The only thing that had warmed in the coming weeks was Harry’s mood. Once Harry and Ron were friends again, he laughed readily, joked easily, and talked constantly. Ron did everything he could to ensure Harry’s forgiveness was not ill placed. Hermione was overjoyed to see it, but a part of her missed those days when it was just she and Harry, reading in the library, or walking by the lake. Now she studied by herself more often than not, left to rue Viktor Krum’s fan club and Madame Pince’s harsh shushes alone.  
Hermione threw herself into her studies to abate the loneliness and quell her anxieties. Homework was often the first endeavor completed, leaving Hermione time to ponder over the Golden Egg. And when that yielded unsatisfying results, she worked on a plan of action for the House-Elf Liberation Front.  
  
She was convinced now more than ever that she would need to find a way to enter the kitchens. She had managed to sleuth the location from Fred and George, though their suspicion made her nervous. While very nice people, the Weasleys were a pureblood family and would most likely not realize the harm of the servile nature of house-elves, or the oppression they face, lulled into a false sense of justification by the elves compliance to the social order. They didn't know any better, though. House-elves didn't know the taste of freedom, the joy of being their own masters, the pride of liberation. It was culturally acceptable to both house-elves and wizards alike, but Hermione wasn’t ready to excuse their blind beliefs. No, she would show them. Show everyone. She just needed to get into the kitchens.  
  
The opportunity came one afternoon when Professor Vector canceled class due to illness, giving Hermione a free period. So, as Harry and Ron headed towards Divinations, Hermione descended from Gryffindor tower to the entrance hall. There were only a few students about, a few Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students, as well.  
  
She descended a stone stairwell, winding down to a cozy corridor, lit with torches and decorated with colorful paintings of every food Hermione could imagine. And there before her sat the painting of a bowl of fruit - the entrance to the Hogwarts' kitchens.  
  
“ _Look at the colors_!”  
  
Hermione spun around, heart thrashing against her chest in fright as a small Beauxbatons girl smiled brightly at the paintings, running up to a portrait of pastries.  
  
“ _Look, look! A croissant, an eclair, a kouign amann, mille-feuille!_ ” The tiny witch spoke in rapid French, so quickly Hermione could hardly keep up, but luckily the girl only seemed to be naming off the pastries in the picture. “ _They look delicious! Are there any here?_ ” The girl turned to Hermione, but she was still baffled by the sudden appearance. More baffling was how familiar the girl looked. She couldn’t have been older than eight, still big-eyed and chubby-cheeked, but her hair was so fair, so bright. And her eyes were so…blue.  
  
“ _I don’t know_ ,” Hermione finally responded in the girl's native tongue, looking about for a moment. “ _The kitchen is just there, I suppose-_ ”  
  
“You speak French!” the girl exclaimed, flashing a beautiful smile. It was contagious, Hermione feeling the corners of her mouth curl. Oddly enough, this was the one thing the girl chose to say in English. Perhaps it was one of the few phrases she knew. “ _My name is Gabrielle!_ ”  
  
“Hermione Granger,” Hermione returned, but the small girl laughed a laugh like little bells.  
  
“ _I know, silly! You are one of the Hogwarts_ _champions! I saw you slay the dragon! Like in a fairy tale!_ ”  
  
“Eh,” Hermione paused, translating briefly in her head before responding, “ _Not quite a fairy tale._ ” She certainly didn’t feel like the damsel in distress, nor the heroic knight battling for her lady fair. She had felt more akin to a pig to slaughter. “ _And I didn’t slay her. That would have been cruel._ ”  
  
“ _Why? The dragon was mean!_ ”  
  
“ _Well, think of it from her perspective,_ ” Hermione knelt, speaking with Gabrielle on her level. Her eyes were so blue, and Hermione swore she recognized her from somewhere. “ _The Swedish Short-Snout was protecting her eggs. She must have been very scared._ ”  
  
“ _Dragons are scared?_ ” Gabrielle whispered in wonder, her voice soft as if saying a secret known only between them. Hermione nodded, smiling wider at the girl’s obvious curiosity. It was refreshing, endearing even.  
  
“ _Oh, yes. And from that fear comes the aggression. That’s why she was so scary; because she was scared for her eggs. Anger is not a feeling, it is a reaction. Wouldn’t you feel scared in her shoes?_ ”  
  
“ _I never thought of it like that,_ ” Gabrielle nodded, “ _Yes, I would._ ”  
  
“And what large shoes they would be.”  
  
Hermione jumped to her feet at the voice, gasping in fright. There on the stairwell stood Fleur Delacour, with her silver-blond hair, powder-blue uniform, and her crystal blue eyes, a smirk playing about her lips.  
  
“ _Fleur, look at the paintings!_ ” Gabrielle exclaimed, rushing to the Veela and grabbing her hand. “ _Come look! They are so pretty! They make me hungry!_ ”  
  
Seeing them side-by-side, Hermione couldn’t believe she didn’t see it before - didn’t realize, didn’t recognize the hair, the eyes, the pointed chin, the small, delicate, curved nose. Gabrielle was Fleur in every way, only smaller. Both also had an affinity for sneaking up on her, it would seem. Hermione wondered how it was accomplished in such tall heels. She had heard those shoes click and clack against the stone floors time and time again as if marching to a cadence, but now of all times, they swore a vow of silence.  
  
“Gabrielle, you know you should be speaking Eenglish,” Fleur chided, though her stern expression softened as Gabrielle groaned, tugging at Fleur’s arm dramatically.  
  
“ _But English is so hard!_ ”  
  
“In Eenglish,” Fleur prompted. Hermione found this a bit hypocritical, as she had known the Veela to gossip with her friends in French. The bitter memory of Halloween came to mind. But she could understand the insistence, considering Gabrielle didn’t appear as versed in English as the older Veela. Practice made perfect. Gabrielle groaned again, thinking and translating in her head, before saying,  
  
“Eenglish is ‘ard!”  
  
“Yes,” Fleur nodded, “But you will not grow if not for practice. Now, introduce yourself to mademoiselle Granger.” The Veela gestured towards Hermione, and she had to stifle a laugh as Gabrielle looked towards her desperately.  
  
“I do,” Gabrielle said, but then corrected herself, “I did!”  
  
“In Eenglish,” Fleur said once more, and once more Gabrielle gave a defeated groan. The little girl stomped up to Hermione, pouting her puckered disapproval. The image of an eight-year-old Fleur sprang to mind, and she imaged it was the intimidating Veela approaching her with those chubby cheeks and desperate eyes. It tickled Hermione to no end.  
  
“My name is Gabrielle Delacour,” The child said slowly. It was not as enthused as her first introduction, but Hermione smiled all the same and nodded.  
  
“It’s very nice to meet you, Gabrielle,” she responded.  
  
“Is there, ah,” Gabrielle began, looking about before pointing to the painting. “Eclair? _Mille-feuille_?”  
  
“Gabrielle,” Fleur said as a warning, but Hermione shook her head, raising a hand in the girl's defense.  
  
“No, that’s alright,” she said to the Veela, offering a small smile. “We use the French word in English.” Which was true, though not the entire the truth. There was an English word for it - Neapolitan. Hermione was under the impression Fleur knew this, a thin eyebrow rising in question, but the Veela held her silence and Gabrielle nodded in agreement to Hermione’s claim, the girl eager for validation. “I’m not sure, but there should be some at dinner.” Gabrielle seemed pleased, but Fleur shook her head.  
  
“No, no, Gabrielle. Mozzer would murder me if she found I ‘ad given you treats like these,” Fleur waved a hand at the paintings, some of the pastries in the picture shifting and shaking in indignation. “Wiz ze size of ze food ‘ere, I would ‘ave a pig instead of a sister!”  
  
“ _But Fleur! I-_ ”  
  
“Eenglish,” Fleur said again, persistent, yet never impatient.  
  
Gabrielle growled but said nothing. Hermione watched, awkwardly, as the siblings had a small staring contest, each raising a thin, blond eyebrow, challenging the other’s determination and facial muscles before Gabrielle grumbled something in French and made for the stairwell.  
  
“Ah, ah!” Fleur called back, “What do you say to mademoiselle Granger for speaking so kindly to you?” Gabrielle came to a full stop on the stairwell, stomping her little foot with a huff. Then, with poise and grace, turned to Hermione and said,  
  
“Zank you for zpeaking wiz me, mademoiselle Granger. ‘Ave a beautiful day.”  
  
“I will,” Hermione responded. “You as well, Gabrielle. It was a pleasure.”  
  
“It was a pleasure,” Gabrielle repeated slowly, perhaps trying to remember the phrase for next time, before turning her back and stomping up the stares, still grumbling in French. A smile crossed Hermione’s face, watching the girl’s retreat. She admired Gabrielle’s energy. Children had such an affinity for learning, hungry to consume as much knowledge and experiences as they could. Many lost this hunger as they grew, sated by apathy and dulled by routine. Hermione could see her peers atrophying with every passing year, sticking to the same old experiences, information, beliefs, and people. This made them feel safe and comfortable, but never thrilled. Never heightened. Never alive. There was still a hunger in Gabrielle, Hermione saw. Still hope.  
  
It was then Hermione realized Fleur had not left with her sister. Instead, the Veela looked at Hermione, tilting her head and flashing a smile.  
  
“Do you ‘ave sisters or brothers?” Fleur asked.  
  
“No,” Hermione confessed, “No, I think my parents thought one was enough.”  
  
“Do zey allow you sweets?” Fleur asked, gesturing again to the painting of pastries, the desserts still looking rather offended by the Veela’s earlier comments.  
  
“Oh,” Hermione hesitated, taken aback by the sudden inquiry. Never the less, she responded, “No, not very often. They’re dentists, you see, so they rarely allowed me sweets. Fearing cavities.” Fleur stared at her for a moment, and Hermione began worrying she said something wrong. What could she have possibly said? That she wasn’t allowed sweets? Fleur had just denied her little sister such. “I have had sweets, don’t get me wrong,” Hermione said quickly, trying to backtrack, suddenly nervous. Why was she so nervous? It was the same Fleur Delacour; the same haughty, unpleasant, vain French tart. But at the same time, it wasn’t. This Fleur wasn’t complaining. This Fleur had a little sister. This Fleur was responsible with her little sister, telling her no sweets and speaking sternly, yet patiently. This Fleur left a strange, fluttering sensation in Hermione’s stomach as those blue eyes stared, lips curling into a smile. It was a nice smile. Not mischievous, not condescending, but pleasant and…pretty? “Sometimes I would even sneak them, though we rarely had them in the house.”  
  
“I am sorry,” Fleur interrupted. Hermione was thankful, feeling that she had been about to ramble. “I do not know what zis is. Zis word - Denteest?”  
  
“Oh!” Hermione gasped, realizing her mistake. “Oh, I see! I’m sorry, I didn’t even think- You see, a Dentist is a healer. For teeth.”  
  
“’ealer for…Teeth?” Fleur repeated slowly. “Did zey do zis?” She pointed to her own mouth, gesturing to her upper front teeth. “To you?”  
  
“To me?” Hermione rose a hand to her face, bewildered, but realization struck when her fingers brushed her bottom lip. “Oh, my overbite!”  
  
“Yes,” Fleur nodded, her shoulders visibly relaxing when Hermione understood her meaning. “You ‘ad ze cute large teeth, and zen you did not. Zis was because of your parents?”  
  
Cute?  
  
“Cute?” Whatever filter Hermione usually had in place failed her at that moment, possibly the worst moment, in front of the worst person. “You think my teeth were cute?”  
  
“Yes,” Fleur nodded, puckering her glossy lips as she giggled, “Like a little Tamia.”  
  
Tamia.  
  
Chipmunk.  
  
The flutter in Hermione’s stomach plummeted. For a glorious moment, Hermione thought she might get to enjoy a decent conversation with Fleur Delacour. Something beyond the teases, the mocking, the prodding. Her overbite may have been shrunk with a spell, but the memory of children mocking her, throwing acorns into her hair, stuffing sticks in their mouths to imitate her front teeth - those memories were still there, larger as ever. To have them repeated by Fleur at that moment, Hermione felt sickened and retreated from any hope she had had for a civil encounter.   
  
“That’s it,” Hermione said bitterly. “I’ve had enough of you. If you’re quite done being nasty, I have business to attend to.”  
  
“Wait a moment,” Fleur snapped, but she had already turned to leave, making her way towards the kitchen entrance. “What do you mean by zis - nasty? I said you ‘re cute!”  
  
“Cute like an invasive species of rodent in France that carries rabies and Lyme disease, yes, I’m flattered!” Hermione retorted, trying to get as far away from Fleur Delacour as possible. The Fleur Delacour that was haughty, unpleasant, and vain. No matter what other characteristics Fleur held in the complicated dimensions of her ego, it was always this Fleur that drove Hermione mad in the end. She didn’t know why it mattered, why Fleur’s comments upset her so, even something as minor as being compared to a chipmunk. Draco Malfoy had mocked her before, so had Pansy Parkinson, so had Lavender Brown, so had plenty of people before Fleur Delacour. But for some reason, her words hurt more than most. It was that strange effect Fleur had on her, the same effect that made Hermione question the nature of a Veela’s thrall, if it truly could affect women. No matter the explanation, the results were always the same. Fleur said her cruel words and Hermione was left to lick her wounds. Not this time. This time, Hermione would leave with her pride intact. She would not allow herself to be affected by Fleur Delacour.  
  
At least, that was the plan.  
  
That is until the most undignified, most frustrated growl escaped the Veela’s proper, pink lips.  
  
The sound startled Hermione, but the disappointment was still thick in her stomach, sickened, so she turned about and squared away against the Veela.  
  
“Why is it everyzing I say upsets you! You!” Fleur waved a manicured hand at Hermione, “Everyzing upsets you!” Her voice rose, echoing off the stone walls, scaring a festive picture of pears, which darted behind their decorative bowl. “I say you ‘re cute, you ‘re insulted! You lie about your boyfriend,” the Veela practically hissed the word, jaw clenching as if it sat bitter on her tongue. “When it is even written in ze newspaper, yet you ‘re upset wiz me for saying such!”  
  
“For the last time,” Hermione shouted, “Harry is not my boyfriend!”  
  
“Yes, zat is ridiculous!” Fleur matched her volume. “Ze boy you spend ever minute wiz could not possibly be your boyfriend! Do you zink me a fool? Even mademoiselle Chang zinks you ‘re more zen friends!”  
  
“Mademoiselle Chang,” Hermione repeated, mimicking and mocking the Veela’s accent, “knows nothing of my life, nor Harry’s! Our relationship is no one’s business but our own! He was my first true friend, the first one of my peers I could rely on! He saved my life!”  
  
“Zen why is he not here, hmm?” Fleur waved a hand about, gesturing to the empty hallway. “He 'as not been around lately to cling to - to 'ide behind! Where is he now?”  
  
It stung more than it should. But Fleur always seemed to know when to parry, when to lunge and just where to thrust her words to pierce Hermione’s heart. Hermione wished Harry was here. She wished he had been with her, adventuring with her, trying to find the kitchens with her. But he was with Ron. The prodigal friend had returned, and Harry was absorbed in the relief of having his best friend back. Logically, Hermione realized she may have been unfair to Fleur. May have been a tad sensitive. Fleur may not have meant any harm in her Tamia comment; however, now Fleur aimed to hurt. It hurt more than it should have, but Fleur’s words hit Hermione square in the chest. Tears stung her eyes, but she gritted her jaw and ground her teeth. She couldn’t think straight, couldn’t conjure a retort, heat rising in her face, hands shaking. At that moment, Hermione couldn’t filter her words. She said her hearts desire.  
  
“Go away.”  
  
It came in a growl, an unrecognizable sound, but it came from her mouth all the same. Her tearful brown eyes glared into Fleur’s crystal blue and, without a word, the Veela turned on her heels and marched up the stares. So like Gabrielle’s storm off, but it was not as funny, not as warm or endearing. Hermione didn’t know why, but it hurt more to see Fleur leave than stay and fight. She felt pierced, stabbed, and wretched for it. She stood there, listening to the clack of the Veela’s heels until they just echoed in the distance. What was wrong with her? Something had to be drastically wrong. Why did she feel so strongly when it came to the Veela? What kind of hold did Fleur Delacour have on her? Hermione felt utterly exhausted, her emotions motion sick from the roller coaster.  
  
With a shaky sigh, wiping the tears from her eyes, Hermione turned to the portrait of the bowl of fruit. Extending a shaking finger, she tickled just below the pear, which giggling and hopped away from the offense. The portrait swung open, and her encounter with Fleur fled her mind, eyes falling on a familiar pair of large, green eyes. A smile spread across her face.  
  
“Dobby?”


	6. The Dreams of Heinrich Heine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! 
> 
> I'm having to rework more of the narrative than I thought, but in the end, I hope it will lead to a more fulfilling story! Here's the next chapter. I hope you enjoy. 
> 
> Have a great day, 
> 
> Jekaterina

“Alright, shut it! Shut it!” Harry screamed over the wails and shrieks, seconded by a groaning Ron and just about everyone else in the Gryffindor common room. Hermione pushed the egg shut with both hands, clasping the lock with a sigh. No matter how they opened it, no matter how hard they listened, no matter which way they tilted it, the egg screamed. It made less and less sense each day. She fell back into her arm chair, giving a huff of frustration. Frustration was all she felt the last few days. Discovering Dobby and Winky was hardly as uplifting as she had hoped, seeing how all of the other house-elves ostracized them and their liberation as abnormalities instead of potential improvements to their own lives. Not only that, but the image of Fleur Delacour stomping off in those bloody heels hadn’t left her since their last, and arguably worst, spat.  
  
She hadn’t gone to dinner that night. She didn’t want to face the blond. Not yet, at least. Hermione had been avoiding her for days, but she would have no choice eventually. Her stomach squirmed at the thought of seeing those crystal blue eyes, seething in anger, frustration, and arrogance. Not because of the chipmunk debacle, not because of any complaint or snide remark, not even because of Fleur’s infuriatingly unwavering belief she and Harry were dating.  
Hermione felt guilty.  
  
She knew she had let her insecurities get the better of her. A juvenile sense of indignation within her yearned for justification. A chipmunk?! How was that a viable compliment? And Fleur certainly was no angel, hurting Hermione where she was most vulnerable, for she was certain those pointed insults were slung purposefully. But Hermione knew her behavior was uncalled for and provoked the Veela. Fleur’s frustration was palpable, perhaps bubbling under the surface all this time.  
  
“ _Why is it everyzing I say upsets you?!_ ”  
  
That was the real question, wasn’t it? Hermione tried to think back to all the times she felt insecure around the blond, self-conscious, or irritated. Back then, she felt valid in her resentment. Now, she spied moments of speculation, moments of potential misunderstanding. Had this been the source of Fleur’s wrath? The frustration of not being understood? It was hard for Hermione to accept. Every word felt like a jab because every word Fleur uttered sounded so snide. Perhaps it was the way she said them. Or perhaps it wasn’t the way she said them, but the accompanying body language - that thin, questioning eyebrow, that irrationally irritating smirk, the tick of her hips, the pout of her lips, the flutter of her skirt-  
  
Hermione shook her head, realizing her thoughts had derailed into something entirely different.  
  
When had she begun noticing these small traits of Fleur Delacour? When had she become so consumed? She couldn’t pinpoint a specific time or place but felt it had always been there, her eyes attracted to certain nuances in the Veela’s body language, absorbed in her behaviors. Hermione liked to think she was a self-assured sort, composed, unperturbed by those seeking to ruffle her feathers. Yet to have someone strut into her life, in powder blue five-inch heels, no less, and have such an effect on her - it was jarring, to say the least, how turbulent her emotions became around Fleur. Everything from the indignation, the self-consciousness, to the butterflies in her stomach, and the strange, resilient hope they might get on.  
  
“Come on, Hermione,” Harry said desperately, “We have loads of time before February and a thousand other things to worry about.”  
  
“I told you if we went together we wouldn’t have to worry about dates,” Hermione muttered bitterly under her breath, but Harry didn’t hear her. He and Ron had gone hunting for dates every evening, with little result, and it was clear they were eager to leave the common room behind to go about their chase. After McGonagall informed Harry and Hermione they would need dance partners, Hermione recommended they attend together; however Harry seemed adamant about dispelling rumors they were in a relationship. She knew why, of course.  
  
Harry like Cho Chang, though he would never admit it. She was happy and hopeful for him, and Cho was a smart enough girl that might compliment Harry’s brash sense of heroism, but the whole affair left her in an awkward position. Sure, boys had asked her to the Yule ball. She was rather shocked by most of the proposals. They were from boys she had never spoken to, or else boys who mocked her at some point or another. She knew why they were interested, at least - wanting their fifteen minutes of fame and a whirl around the floor with a Triwizard Champion. She was determined she would be the one to ask, to ensure it was at least an honest partnership, but part of her felt hollow at the idea. She didn’t want to ask someone just to have a partner. She wanted a Cho Chang, so to speak - someone she knew she would enjoy attending with, someone she liked. But she couldn’t think of anyone that would make her blush, and laugh, and dance, and feel like the only woman in the world. Hermione Granger knew she wasn’t the prettiest, wasn’t the best dancer, wasn’t the most interesting, but she still wanted that night where someone looked at her like she was.  
  
“Hermione, you alright?” Ron asked. Normally she would have found this sweet, even charming. Ron rarely demonstrated compassion, but the last few days, ever since their adventure to the kitchens, Ron asked this question again and again, and again and again, she responded,  
  
“Yes, Ron. I’m fine.” She repeated this as if scripted, but not without a measure of irritation.  
  
“Alright,” Ron huffed, “No need to get your knickers in a twist.”  
  
“My knickers would be quite unraveled,” Hermione snapped, “if you ceased inquiring every two seconds.” Really, what was so off about her? Since reconciling, Harry and Ron had reveled in their revived friendship and Hermione had accepted she would be left behind with her books as they skipped merrily into the sunset, business as usual, but Harry and Ron’s attention on her had intensified the last few days. Harry was far more subtle, perhaps because it was within his character to be more empathetic, but Ron’s inquiries stood out like a hippogriff in a bookstore. Perhaps she should have been pleased with their concern, but there was something off about the attention. It was suspicious, tense, circling about the perimeter, testing the waters, waiting for something. What that something was, Hermione couldn’t say, but she was getting sick and tired of the odd looks and awkward pleasantries.  
  
“Fine!” Ron snapped back, “That’s the last time I ask you how you are!”  
  
“That. Is. What. I. Am. Asking!” Hermione hissed, hoping the articulation of every word would pierce through his thick skull. She twisted at her waist, looking away from Ron’s reddening face to gaze about the common room. There were only a few Gryffindors about. If she had to guess, Hermione supposed most others would be scrambling to get last minute homework done before Christmas break. That was the usual pattern, though Hermione had never suffered this particular dilemma before. There were a few first years, Lee Jordan reading by the fire, and Parvati and Lavender whispering over their homework. Nothing was odd about their whispering, it was their favorite medium for sharing secrets and gossip. No, the oddity was in their faces, in Lavender’s obvious discomfort and Parvati’s manic behavior. The second Parvati caught sight of Hermione she sprang to her feet despite clear protest from Lavender, bee-lining for Hermione’s position.  
  
“Hermione!” Parvati smile, though there was a forcefulness to it, the expression not quite reaching her eyes, nor perking her ears. She hugged her divinations book close to her chest, so tightly Hermione was surprised the pages didn’t burst from the pressure. “Can I have a minute? I need to talk to you.”  
  
“Oh,” Hermione paused for a moment, hesitating at Parvati’s clear distress; the stiffness in her shoulders, the vice grip on her books, the strain from trying to keep a happy face, it made for a worrying sight. Not to mention Lavender Brown nervously bouncing behind her, looking as if she needed a restroom. The peculiar tension reminded Hermione of Harry and Ron’s behavior. Was all of Gryffindor infected? Was there something in the water? “Yes, I suppose. What’s the matter?” Parvati hesitated, eyes darting to Harry and Ron before answering.  
  
“I think it’s best we discuss this privately.” This, unfortunately, caught Harry and Ron’s attention. It was the opposite effect Parvati had intended, but Hermione knew nothing was quite as captivating as something someone didn’t want you to know. Secrets titillated the imagination and she could see Harry and Ron’s soaring.  
  
“Very well,” Hermione said quickly, noting Ron’s mouth quake, his words bursting to escape before he might filter them to be more polite. She handed her egg to Harry, who took it without a word and stood to leave. She wasn’t quick enough, however.  
  
“Why can’t you talk here?” Ron asked, eyes darting back and forward between Hermione and Parvati.  
  
“Because it’s none of your business, Weasley,” Parvati hissed in an odd display of aggression.  
  
“Is this about what happened in Divinations?” Hermione’s head snapped to Harry. He was pointing a finger at Parvati’s textbook. Now that Hermione got a closer look, it was titled Unfogging the Future. The required reading for Divinations.  
  
“What happened in Divinations?” Hermione asked.  
  
“Nothing!” Ron interjected, waving an annoyed hand. “Don’t get her worked up about it. Trelawney’s batty, anyhow!”  
  
“It wasn’t nothing, Weasley!” Parvati snapped. “Professor Trelawney isn’t batty, she’s gifted!”  
  
“Exactly what are you talking about?” ” Hermione turned to Parvati, her chest tightening with apprehension, fearing the answer but needing it all the same.  
  
“She said you were going to die!” Lavender exclaimed, eyes wide, clutching her bookbag to her chest, “Because of your dreams and all of the night terrors!” Parvati swung around, slapping her friend on the arm, who recoiled with a shriek.  
  
“Lav!” the twin hissed. “I’m sorry, Hermione. I told her not to say anything.”  
  
“What did Professor Trelawney tell you,” Hermione said, her tone even, but her mind was spiraling.  
  
“Some nonsense about glens and dark creatures,” Ron shook his head, laughing, though Hermione’s stomach lurched at the words. “The usual rubbish. I mean, if she were actually ‘gifted’ Harry would be dead ten times over.” Ron nudged Harry, perhaps prompting him to agree, but he was watching Hermione. His green eyes bothered her at that moment. They were too green, sometimes. Too striking. Too piercing. “Harry and I, we were just having a go at our homework-”  
  
“You mocked the professor!” Parvati interrupted, but Ron simply shook his head again.  
  
“Yeah, because she’s only satisfied if we predict our own deaths! Anyhow, so she got a bit huffy and said we’d better be careful because death was looming over Hogwarts. We thought she was going to say something about Harry, but it was you! She said,” Ron widened his eyes and hunched his shoulders, an ominous expression casting over his face, though he simply appeared constipated. “‘Death has cast its shadow over Miss Granger! I have seen it! A dark creature of death in a green glen of the beyond! The scent of lilacs and spring rain!”  
  
“I see,” Hermione said, though through gritted teeth. That con woman. That utter loathsome, withered worm of a witch. Just because Ron and Harry were having a go, just because she felt self-conscious, devalued, and mocked, Trelawney felt it was acceptable to share Hermione’s private information with the class, to reach for some claim to validity? Rage was building within her, and she felt the need to march to the top of the North tower. She would rip away whatever sherry bottle Trelawney was nursing and strike those obscenely large spectacles off of her gaunt, shallow face. “You’ll have to excuse me,” Hermione said as calmly as she could, rising from her seat, “I think I need to have a civil conversation with Professor Trelawney.”  
  
“Oh, come on!” Ron laughed, “It’s not true, is it?” Hermione didn’t reply, and didn’t deign to do so when Ron reiterated a little more seriously, “Is it?” Instead, she made her way to the portrait hole, marching through as soon as the Fat Lady swung open.  
  
“Hermione, wait!” Parvati called, and she heard a flurry of footsteps in her wake, but all she could think of was pushing Trelawney off of the North tower. Not to kill her, no - absolutely not. She only wanted to dangle her there until she learned her lesson. Then if she didn’t learn her lesson, perhaps-  
  
“Hermione, hold on!” Harry called after her, and only then did she stop her frantic march. She finally looked back, finding Harry, Ron, and Parvati in her wake. Lavender Brown had stayed behind, it seemed, but this didn’t surprise Hermione. She was more surprised Parvati followed, still that look of distress adorning her face. “Have you been having nightmares like Trelawney said?” He asked simply, but of course he did. Harry was hardly indirect, not when there was action to be taken, trouble to fix.  
  
“You haven’t told them?” Parvati asked, surprised, but caught herself, covering her mouth with her free hand. Harry and Ron’s eyes instantly flew to Parvati, receiving whatever affirmation they needed from her slip. “I’m sorry,” Parvati recovered, “I didn’t think - you three are always together, I just thought you might have mentioned it.”  
  
“You’re fine, Parvati,” Hermione said calmly, though her insides twisted and burned, having her secrets exposed in such a way. She had wanted to tell them anyway, had wanted to seek their help and comfort - so why did she feel so exposed and defensive when the truth now came to light? Maybe it was Ron’s eyebrows, how they instantly furrowed in hurt, or how Harry’s expression softened, looking to Hermione with those green eyes. “No, I didn’t tell them. Enough has been happening this year, I didn’t think we needed one more thing to worry about-”  
  
“So you decided to worry on your own?” Harry said, and Hermione suddenly felt like a child. A child getting caught in a lie, trying to reason her way out of apologies.  
  
“Yes,” She pushed on, pride getting the better of her. “What with the tournament and your…family concerns,” she finished, not wishing to elaborate in Parvati’s presence. “I didn’t see the point in needlessly worrying you over dreams and anxieties. I’m quite alright.”  
  
“No, you’re not, Hermione,” Parvati countered. If not for the tears in the other girl’s eyes, Hermione would have screamed at her. But her surprise over Parvati’s genuine concern triumphed, quieting her anger. “You hardly sleep and when you do it’s only because of a potion and you sleep for half the day. You toss and turn, you sweat through your clothes, bloody hell, Hermione, you screamed through a Silencing Charm!” At this, Parvati took hold of Hermione’s hand, squeezing it tightly. “You are not alright. And that’s okay. So long as you ask for help!”  
  
“I am getting help,” Hermione responded, though feebly. “Professor McGonagall and Professor Dumbledore know, as does Professor Trelawney.”  
  
“So, hang on,” Ron interrupted, face reddening. “It’s important enough for Dumbledore to know, but not us?!”  
  
“And what would you have done, Ron?” Hermione snapped back, “Stood at my bedside with a dream-catcher?”  
  
“I- maybe!” He faltered.  
  
“Ron’s just worried, Hermione, and it’s not nice to find something this big out like this,” Harry defended, “We’re your friends - we want to help you.”  
  
“It hasn’t felt that way, lately,” she confessed with a sigh, looking from Harry to Ron. “Between school, the Triwizard tournament, your spat - there hasn’t been very much room for me. Besides, it’s nothing I can’t handle myself. No matter what Trelawney says, these are simply dreams. Death looming over Hogwarts - it’s poppycock.”  
  
“Professor Trewlaney said she read about these signs before,” Parvati said, “And all of those cases ended in death!”  
  
This gave Hermione pause. Read about them. In a book? A book she could find value in. A book would perhaps give insight on her situation. Perhaps Trelawney was simply dressing things up, trying to impress others, but the book might hold actual answers. As many times as she said she was alright, as many times as she said they were just panic attacks and anxiety fueled dreams, a whisper in the back of Hermione’s mind said otherwise. At this point, stuck between sleep deprivation and panic attacks, she felt she had nothing to lose.  
  
“Alright, then,” she nodded. “ I’ll get the book.” Hermione looked to Harry and Ron, hesitating. “I won’t be long-”  
  
“Bugger that,” Ron interrupted and Harry nodded his agreement.  
  
“We’re going with you,” Harry said, already walking up the corridor towards the North tower. “Real or not, it’s a problem, Hermione. We’re your friends and we’re going to help figure this out. Besides,” he flashed her a lopsided smile, “it’s nice not being the one with the problem, for once.”  
  
“No, that’s not necessary. I’m sure you both want to go search for dates-”  
  
“None negotiable,” Parvati added, looping her arm through Hermione’s and guiding the startled bookworm after Harry. “Now, when did this all start?”  
  
At that moment, all Hermione wanted was to cast them all aside. Their pushing and prodding did nothing to quell Hermione’s defensiveness, her wish to handle this herself, to insist this was nothing that needed their attention or concern. She was close to voicing her opinion, anger rising, but she stopped just a breath away. With a sinking feeling, all she could see was angry crystal-blue eyes, and Hermione knew she was repeating her mistakes. She was being foolish, wanting comfort without being vulnerable. She was being selfish, turning away friends who only wanted to help. So, swallowing her pride, she allowed Parvati to drag her along, starting at the beginning.  
  
Hermione regaled the motley band with the tale as they crossed the castle to the North Tower. Halloween, the nightmares, telling McGonagall, the dark figure in the glen, the night she woke screaming through a Silencing Charm, how the figure called itself the ‘Giver’ and how Trelawney told her she couldn’t fight death.  
  
“Lately the dark figure hasn’t been there,” she confessed, “I’ve just been in the glen myself or…perhaps not always. I’m not sure, sometimes I don’t remember what I’ve dreamed, only that I have dreamed and that, perhaps, I’m not alone. I’ve woken in a sweat, hot and reeling, but nothing as bad as those panic attacks.”  
  
“That’s dark!” Ron was gaping at the end, “That’s bloody dark, Hermione! How could you keep this from us?!”  
  
“It’s my business, Ronald!” She snapped, though knew she shouldn’t have. He was concerned, worried, and hurt. It often came out like this, in defensive anger, but she was far from willing to tolerate the behavior. “I know I worried you, and I’m sorry, but this hasn’t been easy! I can barely get a moment’s rest. Every time I shut my eyes I fear waking in that bloody meadow and now everyone in our year thinks I’m going to die? Perfect. Wonderful. Brilliant! I’m going to push that woman off the tower - shawls and all.”  
  
“Is there anything else you wanna tell us?” Ron snapped, “Haven’t grown another tail, have you?”  
  
“Another?” Parvati squeaked, and for a brief moment, Hermione couldn’t help but let out a hysterical laugh. Perhaps it was the stress of the situation, or the wide-eyed Parvati looking absolutely baffled, but something broke in that moment and she laughed. From the relief she felt, the tension leaving her body with every laugh, Hermione knew the break in tension was much needed.  
  
“That,” she chuckled, “is a story for another time. But no, Ron, I haven’t another tail. The only thing I’ve grown recently is homicidal intent.”  
  
“Is there any way this is all true?” Harry asked, pausing half way up the North tower stairwell, turning to face Hermione. “Is there any chance Trelawney is right?”  
  
“Don’t be preposterous,” Hermione laughed, though that whisper returned, causing her laugh to grow stale. That was, of course, an irrational fear. “Dreams are simply a reflection of our emotions and experiences. They reflect our thoughts and concerns.”  
  
“Some Oneiromancy research indicates dreams access a different plain of reality,” Parvati countered, giving a firm nod. “That dreams are our magical minds reaching for further understanding. Some are more gifted in this magic than others.”  
  
“Then why do muggles dream? They have no magic.” Hermione countered, but this didn’t have the effect she intended. Parvati had an answer.  
  
“Perhaps their dreams are as you said - reaching for an understanding of their emotions. But magical minds reach through their magic for deeper understanding and we have the ability to reach outside ourselves.” Hermione had no counter for this. She hadn’t contemplated the differences between a magic mind and a muggle one. “What’s more, if magic is implemented on a muggle’s mind in some way, their dreams can reach farther, as well.”  
  
“That…is very insightful,” Hermione granted, though it caused nothing but distress. She didn’t want to know what that meant for her dreams if what Parvati was saying had merit. As they neared Trelawney’s study, Hermione paused.  
  
“I’d prefer this to be a private conversation,” Hermione said, causing the other Gryffindors to halt outside Trelawney’s study. “I don’t think someone as squirrelly as Trelawney would appreciate being cornered, as well. I need her to show me where to find that book.”  
  
“We’ll wait out here for you,” Harry responded, causing her to smile. Always the brave defender. Hermione knew she had a tendency to idolize Harry, sometimes to unrealistic proportions, but his loyalty and bravery were something she had always admired. He inspired it in others, as well, Ron looking just as defiant to leave. Calmly, she responded,  
“Alright, then. I’ll let you know how everything turns out. For now, I just need to get that book.”  
  
“Whatever you need, Hermione,” Parvati said, giving Hermione’s hand a squeeze. It was strange. The sudden support was overwhelming. She didn’t quite know what to do, what to say, so she simply gave Parvati a smile, squeezing her hand in return. It appeared to be the right decision. Parvati still appeared distressed, believing every word of Trelawney’s ridiculous predictions, but Hermione’s appreciation seemed to quiet her anxiety somewhat. With a nod to Harry and Ron, she approached Trelawney’s study, rapping the door.  
  
“Professor?” she called, hoping the seer hadn’t seen fit to drink herself to sleep this early in the evening. Light footsteps came to the door until it was opened and Trelawney’s large eyes peered town at Hermione.  
  
“Ah, Miss Granger,” Trelawney said in her usual, dreamy manner. Hermione couldn’t tell if she had been drinking. Perhaps if she had this would be an easier task. “I see my crystal ball did not lie! You did indeed come back to the flock. I thought so, though I thought it might be sooner, given your predicament.” Hermione tried not to cringe at the self-satisfaction in Trelawney’s voice. “Better late than never, my dear! I’m sure there is plenty of time to rejoin the class!”  
  
“I’m quite satisfied in Arithmancy with Professor Vector,” Hermione answered. “I was wondering if I might have a private word, however.”  
  
“Oh,” Trelawney shrunk back, burrowing like a turtle into her shawls, eyes flying to Harry, Ron, and Parvati standing a little way down the stairwell. “I see. No doubt you need guidance. Of course! Of course, come in, Miss Granger. I am always here to help the students.”  
  
“That’s very,” Hermione paused, pushing passed the pulsing irritation rising in her head, “very kind of you.”  
  
Trelawney’s study was untidy and suffocating. As Hermione stepped inside, she choked on whatever sweet incense the professor was burning, which robbed the room of any sort of breathable oxygen. Books and scrolls littered every surface and, just as in her classroom, there were no chairs, simply cushions to sit on. No matter. Hermione hadn’t the mind to stay longer than necessary. Trelawney moved to her short desk, more of a coffee table, and sat at her crystal ball.  
  
“Now, Miss Granger,” she began, opening her hands dramatically, gesturing to one of the cushions. “Have you been plagued with more dreams? Please, describe them to me. I may provide a guiding hand to ease you into your fate.”  
  
“That isn’t what I came to discuss,” Hermione began, reluctantly accepting the seat offered. She sank down to the floor, now level with Trelawney’s wide, excited expression. “Parvati mentioned you had read a book with a similar situation as mine. I recall hearing you say something similar in the hospital wing. I wanted to ask where I might find that book.”  
  
“Find it or no, I fear your fate is sealed, Miss Granger,” Trelawney shook her head, pity swimming in her large eyes. “You must not ignore the signs. Your dreams are meant to lead you somewhere, somewhere wonderful and benign, but the evil presence that haunts you twists the road. You have lost your way, and the only road left to you is into death’s waiting arms.”  
  
“I’ve had enough of this nonsense,” Hermione sighed, “I want to know where I can find the book. If you are so sure I’m going to die, show me evidence, show me something!”  
  
“It wasn’t a book, my dear girl,” Trelawney said, her calm voice a contrast to her usual theatrics. Her tone alone startled Hermione into silence, but Trelawney’s next words struck her dumb. “It was a report from the Department of Mysteries.”  
  
Hermione had read of the Department of Mysteries, though very little. Much of their operations were confidential. They dealt with the great mysteries of the world, such as love, space, thought, time, prophecy and-  
  
Death.  
  
A chill slithered up her spine, but she tried to appear unaffected as Trelawney continued her explanation.  
  
“I was called upon to assist in a matter regarding Oneiromancy, as it is known I inherited the sight from my great-great grandmother, Cassandra Trelawney.” Hermione doubted this, however, did not believe it helpful to voice her suspicion. “And a dear friend of mine within the department entrusted me with his latest research project - an odd connection he had unearthed between death and dreams.”  
  
“Is there a copy of this report at Hogwarts?” Hermione asked, but Trelawney shook her head sadly.  
  
“I’m afraid not. But the report involved a series of diary entries of a Muggle man named Heinrich Heine, dating back to 1841. You see, death within dreams come in a number of fashions, however, there are usually common themes. Darkness, black dogs, fear and dread; however this connection that Heinrich Heine held was unique. Death, itself, appeared in his dreams, just as it does in yours. There is only one such story I know of that death takes such a personal interest and enacts its revenge personally. Surely you have heard of _The Tale of The Three Brothers_?”  
  
“No,” Hermione shook her head, but this didn’t faze Trelawney. She went on,  
  
“Heinrich Heine had been touched by something. In his memoirs, he attempted to publish a series of entries regarding disturbing dreams. The Ministry in France saw fit to confiscate them, deeming them a threat to their own statute of secrecy act, as the matter appeared magical in nature.”  
  
“What sort of magic?”  
  
“Dark,” Trelawney tilted her head as if contemplating those words. “You see, magic in nature is often benign. In wizards as in creatures, magic is, at worst, mischievous. It is always the intent of the wielder that determines the magic’s morality. The magic that manifested in Heinrich Heine’s dreams was found to be malevolent in its very nature, outside a caster’s influence. The magic itself drove Heinrich Heine to bed-rest for eight years, what he referred to as his ‘mattress grave.’ He was a healthy man, a man with a talent for words. ‘The haunting’ he called it. He would wake bare in a shop, light retreating from the darkness draping over the shelves, the counter, the windows, the mantle. Darkness draped over the very air he breathed. Some nights, he saw a creature void of light,” Hermione felt her heart pause, her blood freezing in her veins, at the words. “The creature offered a gift. A gift he was reluctant to accept. Night after night, he refused the gift. Other nights, he saw _her_.”  
  
“Her?” Hermione whispered, fearing what sound she might make if her voice was given more volume.  
  
“Her. That is all he said. She would whisper to him, dance with him, touch him, intimately.”  
  
“A…her,” Hermione repeated, feeling unsettled by the concept. A woman in his dreams? She hadn’t dreamed of a woman. Or…  
  
A sharp pain sprung into her head and she cringed, eyes squeezing shut. If Trelawney noticed, she gave nothing away. She continued, eyes darting dramatically upward, to an unknown space. It reminded Hermione of a cat - one that looks over your shoulder, eyes fixed on something you yourself can’t see.  
  
“This her he spoke of, she was the one he blamed for all of his misfortunes. He was said to have died whispering of dust and a sweet perfume.” Hermione didn’t respond. She couldn’t hear the seer anymore. All she could hear was the thrum of her heart, all she felt was the cool, dew strewn grass beneath her bare skin. A wisp of a memory floated just beyond her reach, fingertips brushing the thought, the feel of lips upon her skin. They kissed her fingertips, her wrist, neck, face, lips. The weight of a body, lithe and strong, pinning her to the ground. Heat rose in her face as Hermione did all she could to remember, and with a jolt, she remembered feeling these sensations in the meadow with no light.  
  
She had dreamed of someone.  
  
The dreams she forgot, the ones that disappeared with the morning light, they were of someone and now all she had were pieces of a memory, a brushing of fingertips, hot breath against her face, soft skin melting into her own. She couldn’t see a face, she couldn’t recognize any features except the beautiful suffocation of close proximity, of being engulfed in their embrace.  
  
There was a person.  
  
There was a _cause_.  
  
Hermione sprang to her feet. It was perhaps a bit too quickly, as she felt her head spin. Still, she said as levelly as she could.  
  
“Thank you, Professor, I won’t intrude any longer.”  
  
“Miss Granger,” Trelawney said, grabbing Hermione’s hand before she could retreat. Hermione felt jarred, ripped from her thoughts, torn from her revelation, eyes finally seeing the wide-eyed form of Professor Trelawney once more. The woman tilted her head, eyes appearing to peer into her soul. “Has the woman appeared in your dream?” She didn’t respond. Her head felt light, ethereal, mystified. The thrum of her heart returned, pounding in her ears as the messy bookshelves and cluttered tables began spinning about the room. The very ground gave way and she was falling, the glow of candlelight shrinking into darkness.


	7. The Offered Hand

_She was dancing. Balancing on the balls of her feet, quick step, long step, pivot, twirl. She didn’t recognize the dance, but her body fell into it naturally, as if moving to the tempo of her beating heart. Just when she grew comfortable, putting together the patterns - outside spin, whisk, reverse turn - her partner redirected their dance - progressive sidestep, four step, oversway, back corte. Hands guided her through progressions. Fingers brushed her waist, tickled the palms of her hands, edged along her sides, caressed the small of her back, pushing and pulling this way and that. Every step back she fell into her partner’s waiting arms, strong and lithe. They wrapped around her waist, engulfing her, consuming her. She had never danced like this before. She was soaring, light and lethal as she followed the other’s lead, wanting nothing more than to be closer and closer. A breath away, so close as if to kiss, then with the next thrum of her heart she was left cold and longing with nothing but the brush of warm fingertips. She clung to them like a lifeline. She wanted to grab her partner, throw him to the ground, straddle him, kiss him- him- him-_  
  
_Her?_  
  
_As her partner slowed, twisting her about, wrapping those lean arms around her once more, she felt the brush of breasts on her back. Soft, pliable, hard nipples striking a contrast. Long nails grazed her thigh, raking up toward her hips. Fingers wove into her hair, guiding her head back as hot breath ghosted over her neck. She accommodated, perhaps even invited, full lips to her skin, reveling in the surge of excitement coursing through her nerves. She inhaled, the smell of lilacs and spring rain intoxicating, consuming her senses. There was a whisper. A breath. A calling._  
  
_“What?” Hermione gasped. “I can’t hear you.”_  
  
_Another whisper mumbled into her ear, but it might as well have been an ocean away. Or across the sea of grass, on the other side of the dark glen. Hermione turned, but no one was there. She stood in the dark meadow, wet grass clinging to her numb feet, icy air cutting. Gone was the warmth, the excitement, the tempo of her heart. It was replaced with furious drumming as her pulse raced, eyes landing on the dark figure across the glen. Dread seeped into her body, balling into a heavy sickness in her stomach. She reached for her wand, but there was nothing at her side. Nothing on her body. She was bare, vulnerable, and afraid. She could not even move her feet as the dark creature emerged from the thicket. Step by step, it drew near, all light void in its presence._  
  
_“Who are you?” A voice whispered. It took her a moment to realize it had been her voice, so scared, so tense, she hardly recognized it._

_**The Giver.**_  
  
_The words echoed within her head. It frightened her more than she could have imagined possible, these foreign words invading her mind - her sanctuary. She realized this sensation, this invasion, was the creature. She raised her eyes to the thing as it circled, pure darkness beneath a cowl. No light could touch its face, if it had a face at all._  
_“The giver of what?” The question slipped passed her lips despite the fear tightening around her throat._  
  
_**Peace.**_  
  
_A sob escaped her lips, feeling the icy scrape of words in her mind once more. The creature stalked closer, and a jolt of terror filled her as it tilted its cowled head and offered its hand._

Hermione gasped as she woke. As her chest heaved, hyperventilating, craving air yet spurning it in the same breath, her eyes darted around the Hospital Wing. The room was dark, all candles long since fizzled on their wicks. There were other students, two or three, scattered down the long line of beds, slumbering peacefully. She quickly clapped a hand over her mouth, trying to control her breathing. With each inhaling breath, a sharp, wheezing whine echoed in the chamber, air passing through tense, narrowed pathways. Exhaling was worse, as all she could do was shake and sob through the tremors and pains. By the time her episode settled, Hermione felt tired and sore.  
  
For a wild moment, she wondered how she came to be in the Hospital Wing. It didn’t take long for her to remember Professor Trelawney’s office, their discussion of the dreams of Heinrich Heine, and the her that haunted his dreams alongside the dark figure.  
  
Alongside?  
  
No, that didn’t seem right. They never appeared together. It was either or, never both. For the first time, Hermione remembered the woman. Not just the woman, either — she remembered everything. Every forgotten dream of the woman flashed before her eyes, dreams of dancing, of soft touches, of rough kisses, of fingernails scratching her skin, of— of—  
  
Hermione’s hand clapped over her mouth once more, but this time to stifle shock, mind flooded with the illicit images, reliving the erotic rendezvous. Not just memories of the dream she just experienced either, but memories of previous nights, less innocent scenes never before conjured by her fifteen-year-old mind.  
  
This couldn’t be right. Hermione was half convinced this was some sick joke. When she wasn’t in fear for her very soul from dreams of the dark creature, she was being- being- ravished by some woman conjured by her own teenage hormones?! Those were the memories that vanished when morning came?! Hermione was in no state to rationalize this revelation, no idea where to begin. This singular woman — for it was a single woman, that she was sure of. It was the same woman over and over and —  
  
Hermione groaned into her pillow, feeling the fabric cool her hot cheeks.  
  
Never had she dreamed something so primal, so sexual in nature. Shame and reluctance rose up against the flooding tide as she tried to bottle her panic. Another part of her, smaller and hidden away, was curious. Never had she pictured herself as a sexual being. She thought the notion frivolous, unnecessary. Pursuits of the mind had always taken precedence over the enjoyment of the body. But now, remembering the soft touches, the bruising grip, the lithe body against her own, the feel of lips where she never imagined lips could touch, Hermione felt the very sexual craving she always assumed imaginary, absurd, and unnecessary. Hermione understood the urgency as her stomach stirred queerly, heat flooded her body, and a throb between her legs beckoned attention.  
  
It wasn’t unpleasant, per se, but she found the arousal uncomfortable. It was one thing to know of sex, of sexuality. Her parents gave her ‘the talk’ well over two years ago, especially after learning her best mates were boys. She knew the process, knew the risks and precautions. Her parents were anything but subtle, explaining everything Hermione needed to know to be responsible. No, she knew what was happening. That wasn’t what made her so uncomfortable. Knowing of sexuality was one thing, but owning it was another beast altogether. These were her thoughts, her fantasies. Hermione wrestled with rationalizing a radically irrational emotional reaction - something her brilliant mind couldn’t quite process.  
  
While she struggled with owning her own thoughts, the thing that frightened her most were the thoughts that weren’t her own.  
  
The Giver.  
  
A shiver echoed through her spine. It spoke. All this time, Hermione imagined it as a part of her, some dark thought, feeling, or anxiety rising from her subconscious, trying to relay an unexpressed emotion or fear. But those words had not been her own. Those words were invasive, intrusive, infectious - venom seeping into her pores, into her veins, into every crevice of her brain. She thought of Heinrich Heine on his mattress grave. Had he felt this sickness? Had this debilitated him, this haunting presence?  
  
Suddenly Hermione wanted to stand, to rise from bed just to prove she could. Her feet touched the stone floor, and nothing felt half as good as the biting cold. Unlike Heinrich Heine, Hermione was determined to do something. Whatever this was, whatever magic, creature or entity invaded her mind, she wasn’t about to take it laying down, so to speak.  
  
Hermione lit the candle on her nightstand with a quick Incindio Charm, with just enough flame to ignite the wick, and rummaged through the nightstand, finding parchment, quill, and ink. Using the tray beside the bed, she created a makeshift desk, laying the tray over her lap. After wetting the ink and dipping the quill, she wrote ‘Giver’ on one side of the parchment, and ‘Her’ on the other.  
  
She paused, staring at the words, the first true physical manifestation of her haunting. These two entities consumed her mind of a night and she knew now, as horrifying as it was, that at least this ‘Giver’ was an external entity. Hermione wrote this beneath its name, the scratch of her quill echoing through the hall. She could no longer blame anxiety or panic attacks. These dreams, the Giver - it was something inflicted upon her. Something dark, something that made her feel small, naked, vulnerable. Something far outside of her control.  
  
Part of her found it ironic. When she first discovered she was a witch, first learned of magic, she felt nothing was impossible. Hermione had imagined doing great things, imagined being great, being unstoppable. But, soon she learned even magic had its limits, such as the Five Practical Exemptions to Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration. This creature had no limits. There were no boundaries it couldn’t cross, nothing it couldn’t touch. It spoke to her through her own mind.  
  
Legilimency, she thought. This creature could use Legilimency. It was one thing to invade another’s mind, to listen, to see, to observe. Another matter entirely to impose a voice, inflict feelings. Only the most intimate of connections could form that pathway. Hermione didn’t see how it was possible for anyone, wizard or no, to accomplish such a thing. And yet, in her very mind, it was accomplished. Hermione recorded her notes, moving on, as she was unable to further develop this idea without someone more knowledgeable on the topic.  
  
Besides the invasion of her mind, the creature had exhibited another new behavior - a gesture quite unexpected. It offered its hand. Her hand shook, remembering the pale, white fingers uncurling towards her. Drops of ink dribbled from her quill, splattering the parchment. She gripped the quill tighter, willing her fear away. Hermione wrote ‘the offered hand’ under the Giver’s name.  
  
She shifted to the other column, the ‘Her’ category, unable to hold her rising blush at bay. What did she feel during these dreams? Aroused, for one. That she had already considered. She wrote this down, as well as describing the dance that took place in her previous dream. She loved to dance but rarely had a chance to. It struck Hermione that these dreams, the appearance of the woman, wasn’t just about sex and arousal. Hermione remembered feeling safe. Content. Loved, even. Not only that, Hermione remembered the feeling of being in love. Perhaps that was why she was certain that, whoever this woman was, she was a single individual, despite the fact that Hermione couldn’t remember her face. The feeling of being consumed, physically and emotionally, by one person, by the one you choose and who chose you in return…Hermione couldn’t recall ever feeling half as happy as she was in those dreams. It was nothing short of intoxicating.  
  
Just as she began jotting these notes down, Madame Pomfrey emerged from her chambers, moving towards Hermione’s flickering candlelight. Hermione hid her notes in her bookbag and tried to feign sleep, but Madame Pomfrey had already spotted her. The healer withdrew a Sleeping Draught and insisted she drink. Normally it would have been a welcomed offer; however, Hermione was far too preoccupied and busy for sleep. She needed answers, she needed solutions. After refusing three times, and after Madame Pomfrey threatening to summon Professor McGonagall, Hermione reluctantly accepted the potion. Her mind was swimming with ideas, but as the potion took effect they floated away, one by one. Thoughts of the Giver fled, thoughts of Heinrich Heine and his mattress grave disappeared. All that was left was her breathing. As she drifted into sleep, Hermione suddenly wished for the scent of lilacs and spring rain.

When Hermione woke, it was to a strange stirring at the foot of the bed. Groggily, as she wiped the sleep from her eyes, she looked down to find a gray cat with spectacle markings staring back at her. She blinked and the next moment Minerva McGonagall stood from the bed, pulling the bed covers up over her shoulders.  
  
“Rest, Miss Granger. There’s still time for it.” From the light glaring through the single-paned windows, Hermione highly doubted the woman’s words, but burrowed further into the blankets all the same, enjoying the warmth.  
  
“What’s the time?” Hermione asked, her voice rough and disoriented.  
  
“It’s near noon,” McGonagall confessed, “but you have been excused from classes. I assume you have your homework done?”  
  
“Uh huh,” she confirmed, tucking the lower part of her face beneath the covers, defending from the cold nipping at her nose.  
  
“Very good,” McGonagall approved. “There’s no need to hurry. I’m sure Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, and Miss Patil will arrive shortly during the Gryffindor lunch period. Until then, you should sleep." Hermione’s eyes opened with a sigh and, reluctantly, she rose.  
  
“I may as well regain what little function I have before they get here,” She said, rubbing her eyes. She sensed McGonagall’s disapproval, but the professor said nothing. Instead, McGonagall offered Hermione a glass of water, which she accepted gratefully. It seemed the other students confined to the Hospital Wing the previous night had been excused. Hermione couldn’t even find Madame Pomfrey. She and Professor McGonagall were alone in the large chamber.  
  
“Professor Trelawney told the Headmaster and I what happened, or rather, her version of what happened,” McGonagall explained as Hermione sipped gingerly at the water, relishing the relief it brought her dry throat. “Painted with dark prophecies and looming doom, as you can imagine. You fainted in her office.”  
  
“First time I’ve ever been thankful for pillows instead of a proper desk and chairs,” Hermione said dryly. McGonagall raised a thin eyebrow at the jape but continued her train of thought.  
  
“Professor Dumbledore is dealing with a matter regarding the tournament, but I suspect he may wish to speak with you soon. Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley had to be forced to bed after they brought you here, and Miss Patil was inconsolable. She was certain you had perished on the spot.” Hermione lowered the glass, the image of the creature’s hand uncurling its fingers towards her from the dark recesses of her mind. As much as she willed herself to forget, the hand remained there, waiting.  
  
“What did Professor Trelawney say?” Hermione asked. McGonagall pursed her lips as if the answer was bitter on her tongue.  
  
“She claimed you came for guidance, though Mr. Potter elaborated that you approached her because she had been speaking of you during lessons. I swear, the whole department of Divinations should have been done away with years ago. She said you discussed your dreams and their connection with a report from the Department of Mysteries. Professor Dumbledore promised to find the Unspeakable who wrote the report and discuss the entry with him, personally. Other than that, it was mostly nonsense regarding some woman she insisted was the cause of your dreams and your downfall, some mysterious her character.”  
  
“Yes, I remember,” Hermione said, averting her eyes from the professor, heat rising in her face. “Trelawney mentioned Heinrich Heine discussing a 'her' character in his dreams and he seemed to blame her for his misfortunes. Trelawney asked me if I had seen the woman before I collapsed.”  
  
“That bloody woman’s a menace,” McGonagall growled but took Hermione’s hand affectionately. “How are you feeling?”  
  
“Well enough,” she admitted, giving a strained smile. “Madame Pomfrey gave me a sleeping-draught last night, so I slept a bit.”  
  
“You need more than a bit, Miss Granger.”  
  
“I’m afraid to play dream roulette at the moment,” Hermione confessed. “It’s either dreams of that creature, or-” She paused, freezing at the notion of confessing the erotic nature of her dreams.  
  
“Or?” McGonagall prompted, but Hermione was saved when the doors to the Hospital Wing opened. Hermione thought it might be Harry, Ron and Parvati, but it wasn’t.  
  
It was Gabrielle Delacour.  
  
The little girl, wrapped in her powder blue uniform, ran the length of the hall, the clack of her small, flat shoes echoing off the stone walls. Hermione could see the little girl was rushing her bed, those big, blue eyes fixed on her location, but if Hermione thought she would stop at the bed, she was mistaken. The little Veela launched herself onto Hermione, knocking her back on the mattress. The girl spoke in such rapid French Hermione was hard pressed to understand, catching one word in ten. If she was surprised by the sudden invasion, Professor McGonagall was absolutely flabbergasted, watching wide-eyed at the peculiar scene.  
  
“Gabrielle!” Hermione called, trying to push the girl from her space, though the little Veela’s grip was surprisingly resilient. “Gabrielle! _What is wrong_?!” She finally managed to ask in French, sitting Gabrielle on the bed, though the girl refused to relinquish her hold on Hermione’s arm.  
  
“ _I heard you were sick_!” Hermione finally understood the girl’s rushed French. “ _What is wrong? Are you ill?! Did someone hurt you_?!”  
  
“ _No_ ,” Hermione responded, “ _No, Gabrielle. No one hurt me. Who told you this_?”  
  
“ _It was the Ravenclaw girl! She told Adelaide and Edric and Fleur you were sick, and you collapsed, and that you were in the Hospital Wing_!”  
  
“Wonderful. More rumors.” Hermione grumbled, eyes redirecting to Professor McGonagall. “Apparently word travels quickly in the Great Hall.”  
  
“I never knew you had a way with children, Miss Granger,” McGonagall said, amusement twittering in her Scottish lilt.  
  
“I don’t usually,” Hermione confessed, unsure of how the comfort the distraught girl. Reluctantly, she finally allowing Gabrielle into her personal space, wrapping an arm around her small shoulders. Gabrielle felt alarmingly small against her side. Hermione wasn’t used to handling children. They were so delicate, fragile, impressionable. The little Veela took the opportunity to scootch closer, putting her head on Hermione’s shoulder. It was strange and a bit uncomfortable, but she bore it all the same, seeing Gabrielle beginning to calm. “At least she isn’t as difficult as her sister.”  
  
“Her sister?”  
  
“Gabrielle!”  
  
Hermione’s heart dropped like a stone as, seemingly summoned, Fleur Delacour rushed into Hospital Wing flanked by two Beauxbatons students. Unlike her little sister, even hurried, the Veela maintained grace and poise, sashaying down the aisle with confidence and authority. The blonde’s confidence only faltered upon meeting Hermione’s gaze, pausing a few feet from the bed. There was a moment of hesitation shared between them, a moment of uncertainty, but Gabrielle jumped into action before either could speak a word.  
  
“ _Fleur, I had to_ come _see if she was alright! You were about to, anyway!_ ” For the first time she could recall, Hermione saw Fleur Delacour’s face flush, her elegant, pale cheeks reddening, eyes darting quickly from Gabrielle, to Hermione, back to the little Veela.  
  
“You ‘re being rude,” Fleur said sharply, gesturing to Professor McGonagall. “You know Mademoiselle Granger understands, but you do not know if ze Professor speaks French. Eenglish, Gabrielle.”  
  
“ _You were just speaking in French with Edric and Adelaide in front of the Ravenclaw girl!_ ” Fleur released an annoyed huff, but one of her friends, a dark-haired boy, handsome in his powder blue uniform, laughed heartily.  
  
“She’s got you there, Fleur.”  
  
“Be quiet, Edric,” the red-haired girl beside him hissed, elbowing the tall boy in the sides.  
  
“Ow, you and your bloody sharp elbows! You’re all edges!”  
  
“I’ll have to ask you keep your voices down,” Professor McGonagall interrupted in her distinctive disciplinarian tone, looming over the Beauxbatons students. “This is a Hospital Wing, not a Quidditch pitch. While I’m sure your intentions are well placed, Miss Granger has had a trying night and needs rest. I’ll have to ask you to leave.”  
  
“What is ze matter?” Fleur countered, “Is zis ‘er memory from ze charm she did? I do not understand, she performed the counter-charm perfectly.”  
  
“You heard the scary lady, Fleur,” The handsome boy, Edric, said, “I think that’s our cue, ladies.”  
  
“I am not leaving,” Fleur frowned at him, annoyed. “I want to know what is ‘appening.”  
  
“It is not our business, Fleur,” the red-haired girl, whom Hermione assumed was Adelaide, said in French, trying to reach for the Veela. Fleur swatted her hand away.  
  
“I am making it my business,” Fleur hissed, “This is the second time she has been to the infirmary. The first time, I brought her here myself! I am not leaving without an explanation.”  
  
“Me eizzer!” Gabrielle announced, proving more like her sister than Hermione originally predicted.  
  
“You ‘re leaving, Gabrielle! You ‘ave lessons.” Fleur pointed to the door.  
  
“ _But Fleur_ -”  
  
“Go!”  
  
Hermione had to admit, Gabrielle made a valiant effort. She wasn’t confident she could have said no to the little Veela’s pout, her big, blue eyes, but Fleur stood her ground. With a dramatic huff, Gabrielle stood from the bed, stomped her little food, and marched towards the door.  
  
“Are her exits always so dramatic?” Hermione asked, relieved that she could finally lay back on her bed without a little girl glued to her side.  
  
“Says the girl who cast a memory charm on herself?” Edric laughed, and Hermione couldn’t help but blush bashfully. It wasn’t an accusation she could easily counter.  
  
“As it seems our guests are reluctant to leave,” Professor McGonagall interrupted, eyes darting back from Fleur, to Edric, to Adelaide, and back to Fleur. “Are you well enough to entertain company, Miss Granger?” Hermione knew what this really meant. It was McGonagall for, “If you wish, I will chase them away.”  
  
“Yes, professor,” Hermione answers dutifully, eyes flickering to Fleur, as well. There was a little triumphant smirk dancing at the corners of the Veela’s lips, one Hermione knew McGonagall would take as a taunt.  
  
“Since it seems you won’t be lacking in entertainment,” McGonagall announced, though her last note was a bit sour, Hermione couldn’t help but notice. “I’ll take my leave. I’ll be back tonight before supper.” With a small nod to Hermione and a sideways glance to Fleur Delacour, Professor McGonagall left the Hospital Wing.  
  
An odd moment passed, a moment of silence and nerves. Edric swayed from heel to toe, shoving his hands onto his powder blue pockets. Adelaide examined her nails, a red eyebrow quirked, as if annoyed. Fleur, the one person Hermione vaguely knew in the room, stood oddly by her bedside, staring out the window. Hermione decided to break the silence.  
  
“I’m sorry for worrying you,” She began. Her stomach flipped as Fleur’s crystal blue eyes jumped to her. Her stare always made Hermione nervous. But Hermione had already determined to do better, try and be less abrasive. Perhaps this could be the first step. “I’m afraid the tale isn’t as exciting as last time. I fainted, is all,” she confessed. Hermione knew it was a half-truth, but there was enough honesty in it. “I haven’t been taking care of myself as I should. Stress and…whatnot.” She felt the finish was a bit lame, but the longer Fleur’s eyes bore into her own the stronger her stomach fluttered. It was unsettling, to say the least. The self-conscious voice in her head warned against showing vulnerability. Hermione knew this was a reflection of her own thoughts more than Fleur’s, however. If she had learned anything from their last conversation, it was damnation lay in her insecurities. She was afraid Fleur saw her as a child. Too immature, too amateur, too reckless - how could she hope to compete against seventh years when she was in the Hospital Wing more than any student should be? She feared Fleur’s judgment, feared being deemed unworthy. Unworthy of what, she couldn’t say.  
  
Whatever the self-conscious voice in her head expected never came to pass. Instead of a sneer, Fleur’s beautiful face softened.  
  
“I am sorry,” Fleur finally said softly. “It was selfish curiosity. I ‘eard you were ‘ere and zought you might be ill.”  
  
“No, nothing like that, just,” Hermione paused, but finished, “just a bit overwhelmed.”  
  
“You didn’t seem overwhelmed with that dragon!” Edric smiled a dashing smile. “Didn’t get your skirt caught on fire!”  
  
“Stop being so obnoxious!” Adelaide chastised. To Hermione’s surprise, all three Beauxbatons students took up seats beside her. She couldn’t help the nervous jitter rising in her chest as Fleur took McGonagall’s abandoned seat to her right.  
  
“I’m not being obnoxious!” Edric protested, “I’m just saying the fourth year wasn’t stupid enough to wear a flippin’ skirt!”  
  
“Zat was not my fault!” Fleur snapped, raising a thin eyebrow in challenge, though Hermione caught a small smile quirking the Veela’s lips. “Zat was ze Madame! She thought I should. Some nonsense of school pride.”  
  
“Maxime thought you needed more pride?” Edric grinned, but Hermione couldn’t help but laugh as Adelaide rolled her large, brown eyes.  
  
“You must ‘ave attention everywhere,” Adelaide said judgmentally in broken English, her accent far thicker than Fleur’s, or even Gabrielle’s.  
  
“I’m too handsome to play second fiddle, love,” Edric gave a dashing smile. “You wanted arm candy when you asked me out, so you got arm candy! In all my high-maintenance glory!”  
  
“Zometimes, it is ‘ard remembering ‘is better qualities,” Adelaide said to Hermione, ignoring Edric’s irksome perkiness. “I am Adelaide Antioch. Zis…” Adelaide turned to Edric, who seemed to be bobbing his head to music only he could hear, mouthing lyrics no one could understand. When Adelaide’s eyes found him, he paused and smiled, waiting to be introduced. “Zis imbecile is Edric ‘Ughes.”  
  
“Hughes,” Edric corrected.  
  
“Zat is what I say,” Adelaide countered. “‘Ughes”  
  
“Hughes.”  
  
“‘Ughes”  
  
“Hughes.”  
  
“‘Ughes”  
  
“Hughes.”  
  
“Connard!” Adelaide hissed, slapping Edric in the arm. The boy erupted with laughter. Hermione couldn’t help but join him, and soon Fleur’s bell-like laugh echoed in the halls. Adelaide rose red-faced, her equally red hair bouncing from side to side as she marched from the Hospital Wing, cursing in French with every step. Edric’s laughter finally died down.  
  
“Oh, she’s a riot,” he chuckled as he stood. “I’d better grab her, though. And she calls me dramatic!” Edric turned to Hermione, leaning down to shake her hand. “Hermione, it was good meeting you formally. Do feel better, alright? Can’t give this one an easy win, you know.” Edric nodded to Fleur, who simply rolled her eyes.  
  
“Do you not ‘ave an angry girlfriend to apologize to?”  
  
“Oh!” Edric slapped his forehead, “right, right! I forgot in the last two seconds! Absolutely slipped my mind! Thank you for reminding me. You’re a right angel, Fleur Delacour!”  
  
“Je m’en fous,” Fleur said with a shrug, rolling her eyes and picking at her nails.  
  
“Love you, too!” Edric gave Fleur a peck on the cheek and Hermione a wink before dashing up the hall, yelling after Adelaide with all the passion of a young man in love.  
  
“That is not how you say ‘I love you’,” Hermione commented, trying to quell a rising grin.  
  
“No, it is not,” Fleur finally looked up from her nails, sending her a sly smirk.  
  
“Listen, Fleur,” Hermione bit her lip, hoping to repress that strange jitter she always felt around Fleur Delacour. “I wanted to apologize. I can be,” she sighed, trying to quell her indignation, “easily offended sometimes. Chipmunk — it was a not-so-kind nickname in primary school, and I’m afraid it triggered a few dormant insecurities. I trust you had the best of intentions.” The Veela’s expression softened.  
  
“I could ‘ave not been, ‘ow you say,” Fleur sighed, pursing her lips, as if a bitter taste touched her tongue, “persistent? No, um… Impertinent. It was not my intention to offend.” Hermione nodded, a strange giddiness jumping inside her chest.  
  
“I also owe you thanks,” Hermione confessed. It was easier than the last and came with a smile, “for reminding me of the counter-charm. Memoria Reparare. I honestly don’t know what would have happened on Halloween if you hadn’t.” Fleur tilted her head to the side as a smile crossed her lips. The Veela leaned forward in her chair, closer to where Hermione sat upright in bed. “How did you know it? I only read about it a few weeks prior in a research report Professor Flitwick gave me.” Fleur gave her a wide smile.  
  
“'Charms and Ze Discourse of Repairing Memory,'” The Veela said, raising that thin, blond eyebrow. “Am I wrong?”  
  
“You’ve read the same paper?” Hermione gasped, turning to face Fleur, sitting cross-legged in bed.  
  
“Oui,” Fleur said with a laugh, eyes flitting over her. “My Charms professor, Madame Roux, ‘elped ze research for zat report. You are not ze only one wiz a fondness for Charms.”  
  
“Francine Roux?!” Hermione gasped, a grin bursting onto her face. “I’ve heard of her! She’s one of the leading experts in memory charms — the British Ministry of Magic tried to recruit her for the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, but she refused to leave France. I didn’t know she is teaching at Beauxbatons!”  
  
“Oui,” Fleur responded once more, letting out another laugh that twittered like little bells. “She is my favorite professor. She was upset zat I would spend zis year away.”  
  
“What is she like? How are her lesson plans? Does she incorporate much of her personal research in her classes? Though I suppose she would only have older students aid in her research. What kind of funding does she get from Beauxbatons? Is she working on anything currently?”  
  
Hermione fell silent as Fleur’s giggles turned to bursting laughter. She suddenly realized how she must sound, babbling and completely unhinged. It was so rare to find someone around her age that read research papers about experimental magic that Hermione unconsciously released a filter she usually had in place, the filter that ensured she didn’t irritate her fellows with over-enthused curiosities. She didn’t know how it happened, but it was like the floodgates burst and questions began flying from her mouth. For a moment she was afraid Fleur was laughing at her — laughing at her animated excitement. Hermione felt herself shrink instinctively, crossing her arms defensively, insecurities setting in.  
  
“No, no, no, mon amie, none of zis,” Fleur said, rushing to stand in front of Hermione, hands reaching for her arms. Fleur’s gentle hands rubbed her arms, up and down, as if to warm them. The touch seemed to awaken every nerve in Hermione’s body as if caffeine was being shot into her bloodstream. “Calm yourself — I am amused! Madame Roux says zings like you do. Very, very fast! She is most distracted. Ask ‘er a question and she talks and talks and talks! Edric asked ‘er ze importance of ze frontal lobe when casting Memory Charms and she spoke for two hours! We were fourteen, but she wanted us to remember ze different parts of ze frontal lobe and ‘ow ze wand movement correlated wiz ze area! We all ‘ad zoughts of murdering Edric.”  
  
“That sounds like a dream,” Hermione confessed, a smile returning to her face. “Oh! Not murdering Edric, the other thing!”  
  
“Oui, but we ‘ad barely begun zummoning charms. We were overwhelmed!” They both laughed. Hermione had to force herself to ignore how close Fleur was, standing over Hermione, the Veela’s delicate hands resting on her shoulders. She determined it must be a French thing. She knew they were far more familiar with acquaintances than the English, having spent holidays in France with her parents.  
  
“I had no idea she was teaching! Oh, now I wish I would have known. I wonder if Hogwarts has a summer exchange program of some sort - I would love to meet her.”  
  
“I zink you two would be as two birds of ze feazer,” Fleur laughed, sitting beside rather close beside Hermione on the bed. “You should attend Beauxbatons.”  
  
“Oh, I couldn’t!” Hermione laughed, “I could never leave Hogwarts. My friends are here, and I love my school. There’s so much that Hogwarts has left to offer. I couldn’t just leave.”  
  
“But you would look adorable in blue!” Fleur exclaimed, rubbing a hand on Hermione’s lower back. Had it gotten hotter? Hermione felt oddly warm, cheeks reddening as Fleur’s eyes took a quick detour down her body and back up again. Yes, the French were far more familiar than the English. “And France is so much more beautiful zan zis gloomy place!” Fleur exclaimed, shaking a hand at the window, white clouds hanging in the distance. “Cold, barren, lifeless. It is a wonder anyzing can survive ‘ere!”  
  
“Well, that pleasant conversation lasted for the whole of fifteen minutes,” Hermione mumbled, but Fleur simply smirked. Damn, not again.  
  
“Oh, no, mademoiselle,” she began in that high pitch, sarcastic voice, “it is beautiful ‘ere.”  
  
“Stop it,” Hermione pointed a threatening finger at her but this only seemed to egg Fleur on as she leaned closer.  
  
“Oh, no, mademoiselle,” Fleur continued as Hermione shrunk away from the Veela.  
  
“I said no!” She exclaimed, her pitch skyrocketing when Fleur reached out, tickling her sides.  
  
“Oh, no mademoiselle, ze cooking is tre magnifique!” Fleur rolled her eyes at this, and Hermione felt the impulse to slap her again. Instead, she slapped Fleur’s hands away and shook an angry finger at the Frenchwoman.  
  
“The House-elves do their best!”  
  
“You need new ‘Ouse-elves,” Fleur said simply, causing Hermione to gasp. She slapped a hand down on the bed, rounding on the Veela.  
  
“How dare you! It’s not like they chose to be here! It’s not like they can leave or even get pay!” Fleur raised an eyebrow at this.  
  
“Why would you pay a ‘Ouse-elf?”  
  
“Because they’re people, Fleur Delacour!” She exclaimed, “And they’re treated like slaves!”  
  
“Ah, oui,” Fleur, much to Hermione’s bewilderment, agreed, “I forget. Ze Eenglish ‘re razzer cruel towards creatures ‘ere.”  
  
“I-” Hermione hesitated, bewildered at the Frenchwoman’s sudden change of tone.  
  
“I- yes, we do. I mean, did you know House-elves aren’t even registered as beings in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, despite how perfectly they fit into the definition? It’s nothing short of oppression.”  
  
“My muzzer was worried of such,” Fleur confessed, crossing her arms over her powder blue uniform.  
  
“Why was she — oh,” Hermione paused, realizing Fleur’s concerns went passed that of Elvish oppression. “Because you’re Veela.”  
  
“A quarter, oui. Zat does not matter, so much. If you ‘re born Veela, you are Veela, no matter ze blood.”  
  
“Are laws different in France?” Hermione asked as gently as she could.  
  
“For ze elves? Or for Veela?”  
  
“Both, I suppose.”  
  
“For ze ‘Ouse-elves, ze law is ze same; ‘owever, ze ‘re treated kinder. Zere ‘re laws protecting zem from violence. For ze Veela, we ‘re very active in politics, so we ‘ave a very strong voice. My grandmuzzer was friends wiz Monsieur Dumbledore, for ze war wiz Grindelwald.” Fleur withdrew her rosewood wand. Up close, Hermione was mesmerized by the elegant carvings, the reddish hue, and the curling pommel. It was a beautiful wand, a very suitable wand for Fleur Delacour. “Grandmuzzer was a leader in ze Resistance, for ze muggle war and ze wizarding war. Zat is ‘ow she met my grandfazzer.”  
  
“She sounds like a very brave woman,” Hermione commented gently, sensing something delicate in Fleur’s speech. She didn’t want to break the moment, mesmerized by the Veela’s vulnerability.  
  
“Oui, she was,” Fleur gave a somber smile. “After my grandfazzer died, my grandmuzzer pulled a lock of ‘air from ‘er ‘ead and told mozzer to give it to me, to make a wand so she would always be wiz me.” She ran her long fingers up and down the rosewood wand, holding it gently, carefully. “I feel ‘er sometimes, when I cast magic.”  
  
“That’s incredibly sweet,” Hermione said, and Fleur raised her blue eyes to meet her gaze. There was something bashful in the expression, a hesitant smile, a flutter of eyelashes. Then a twinkle of mischief crossed those blue eyes, and Fleur held out the rosewood want.  
  
“‘Ere. Take it,” Fleur said. Hermione leaned back, shaking her head.  
  
“Oh, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” She chuckled nervously, “Olivander said Veela hair wands can be rather temperamental. I’m not sure it would like another witch holding it. I’m sure I’ll just demolish the entire Hospital Wing.”  
  
“Please? Amuse me for a moment,” Fleur insisted, offering the wand pommel first. Hermione hesitated for a moment, shaking her head once more.  
  
“This is a terrible idea,” she said before finally accepting the wand. For a moment there was nothing. The wood was smooth in her hand, the grip well suited for her palm. Then heat seeped into the palm of her hand. It crept up her arm, through her nerves until the sensation settled in her chest. She gasped, the magic swirling inside her, warming her.  
  
“She likes you,” Fleur whispered, taking Hermione’s hand in her own, holding it there with the wand still in her grasp. Hermione looked into Fleur’s crystal blue eyes, and couldn’t help but smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all. Hope your holidays are going well!
> 
> I know it has taken a while to update. I was working on one chapter, but then that one chapter had to be broken into three, so here's the first of the three chapters! I'll be finishing the other two this week, and then I'm off to Germany for the holiday season. 
> 
> Have a good winter season and a fabulous day, 
> 
> Jekaterina
> 
> P.S.
> 
> I did as much research on the French used in this chapter as I could, but I will warn you I don't speak a lick of French. If any of you have advice or corrections, let me know! It'll only improve the story. Thanks!


	8. Samovila

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! Thank you for your patience. I have four new chapters for you. I'll have a longer note at the end of this chapter with a bit more explanation if you care to read it. If not, that's fine, too. Quite a bit happens in the next four chapters, so I hope you enjoy the story. As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts, feedback, and criticisms if you care to share. 
> 
> Have a great day, 
> 
> Jekaterina

The warmth from the rosewood wand lingered long after Fleur departed. The blonde left Hermione with a smile and a wink, which may have also contributed. As reluctant as she was to remain confined to bed, she tried to make her stay in the Hospital Wing productive, spending much of her time reading and researching. When Madame Pomfrey dashed about the Hospital Wing caring for students, Hermione read books on creatures and screams in the magical world for the second task, looking for any connection between a creature’s scream and the golden egg; however, when Madame Pomfrey was away she withdrew her notes on the Giver and Her. Much to her displeasure, there was little to be done on the matter. Or rather, there was little she could do on the matter at present. Hermione found comfort knowing Professor Dumbledore was taking a personal interest in her dilemma. She was grateful for his attention, as well as Professor McGonagall’s concern; however, she wanted to do something. She was itching to take some sort of defensive action against her nightmares, loathing the fact she was left to rest while others searched for solutions.  
  
Trelawney’s account of Heinrich Heine truly shook Hermione. It was a rare day when Sybill Trelawney was right about something, but the similarities between Heine’s dreams and her own were undeniable, unsettling, and undoubtedly terrifying. The creature devoid of light, the presence of a mysterious woman, darkness draping over her vary dreams — this haunting, as Heine named it, plagued Hermione as it had plagued him. The only differences were the location of the dreams and the scent that dwell there. While Heine dreamed of some old shop, dust, and a sweet perfume, Hermione dreamed of the misty glen and the scent of lilac and spring rain. What accounted for the difference was impossible to determine.  
  
The connection between Heine and Hermione’s dreams was the extent of the Seer’s usefulness, in Hermione’s opinion. Not only had Trelawney flaunted Hermione’s personal issues to a class of her peers, but insisted to her face she was haunted by Death, of all the silly things. She understood death held a stigma in the wizarding world, knew the discourse differed from the muggle view, but to insist death was an actual cognitive being rather than a part of the human condition was absolutely ridiculous. Death was not a being with a will of its’ own. Hermione had asked Madame Pomfrey of the tale Trelawney quoted, The Tale of the Three Brothers, and found it to be nothing more than a childish fable. If a children’s tale was the foundation for her argument, Trelawney simply could not be trusted to help. For the time being, Hermione had to trust in the Headmaster’s abilities.  
  
When Hermione was discharged from the Hospital Wing late that evening, she felt exhausted and demoralized. She returned to the Gryffindor common room to find Harry, Ron, and Parvati seated by the fireplace. Harry saw her first, jumping to his feet as she stepped through the portrait hole.  
  
“Hermione!” He smiled, and she couldn’t help but wrap her arms around him. Still warm from the hearth, Harry’s embrace brought more comfort than she had felt in days. Exhaustion settled into her bones as Hermione allowed Harry to guide her towards the fire. He seated her on the sofa, warping an affectionate arm around her. Ron, who was playing a game of Exploding Snaps, abandoned his cards to sit on her other side. She was a bit surprised by the move. Ron wasn’t usually affectionate, not in the same way she and Harry were. A strange look crossed his face, as well, his eyes darted from Harry to Hermione. It wasn’t aggressive, but it wasn’t pleased, either. He appeared constipated, more than anything. Hermione didn’t have the energy to question or complain. Parvati sat on the coffee table.  
  
“How are you?” Harry asked.  
  
“Utterly exhausted, like a hippogriff did the gig on my chest,” she confessed, though felt reluctant to reveal little else. So instead, Hermione redirected the attention back to her friends. “How have you all been carrying on?”  
  
“We’re alright—” Harry began, but Ron let out a loud groan.  
  
“Bloody awful!” Ron said, throwing back his head dramatically. “Snape is giving a Potions test on the last day of term! Can you believe that?!”  
  
“Yes,” Hermione laughed, “Yes, as a matter of fact, I can. You’re not exactly straining yourself, though.” She shook a lazy finger to the coffee table Parvati was sitting on. She could easily guess the magazine featuring the Wicked Sisters was Parvati’s, since neither Harry nor Ron had ever shown interest in ‘How to make those lavished locks shine with Wanda Wicker’s new Potion.’ Harry, at the very least, was reading a book, though there was Quidditch player zooming about the cover instead of potions and antidotes. If Ron’s singed eyebrows could speak they would tell the tale of his rousing rounds of Exploding Snaps. Ron had the decency to look abashed but recovered quickly.  
  
“Well, got to stay loose, haven’t I?”  
  
“Yes, because you’ve been worked to the bone,” Parvati said, rolling her eyes.  
  
“And I don’t suppose that book with the little Quidditch player on it has anything to do with potions?” Hermione voiced, giving Harry a pointed look.  
  
“It’s Christmas, Hermione,” Harry groaned, leaning his head back on the sofa.  
  
“I’d have thought you’d be doing something constructive, Harry, even if you don’t want to learn your antidotes.”  
  
“Like what?” Harry asked.  
  
“I don’t know, something to do with golden eggs?”  
  
“Come on, Hermione. We’ve got till February the twenty-fourth.”  
  
“But it might take weeks to work it out! You’re going to look a real idiot if everyone else knows what the next task is and you don’t!”  
  
“Leave him alone, Hermione! He’s earned a bit of a break,” Ron jumped to Harry’s defense. “Besides, I don’t see you working it out!”  
  
“What do you think I’ve been doing all day?” Hermione snapped back.  
  
“Sleeping?” Ron shrugged.  
  
“Not likely,” Hermione grumbled, which thankfully went unremarked, though Parvati gave her a pointed look. “I asked Madame Pomfrey to fetch books for me — anything related to magic eggs. I’ve been reading all day!”  
  
“Well, you’ll tell Harry what you find, won’t you?” Ron nodded as if the matter was settled. As much as she wanted to pursue the argument, Hermione bit back her retort when she felt Harry stiffen beside her. As fervent as she was to pinpoint Ron’s folly, Harry didn’t deserve to be caught in the crossfire. And what was the harm in a few days of frivolity? Perhaps Hermione could even benefit from a break; however, she knew some matters were easier to compartmentalize than others.  
  
“We have more pressing matters to discuss, don’t we, Hermione?” Parvati cut in, “What happened with Professor Trewlawny? We were waiting outside for you when all of a sudden we heard the professor scream. I’ve never seen Harry and Ron move so fast. They were practically through the door when you hit the floor.”  
  
“I’ve never been so grateful for all of those blasted pillows,” Hermione quipped but knew avoidance was futile, not with Parvati’s persistent pushing, or Harry’s intense, green gaze. Harry to her left, Ron to her right, and Parvati guarding the front. It seemed she was surrounded.  
  
"McGonagall wouldn’t tell us anything,” Ron complained, “Said you’d tell us if you wanted to.”  
  
“Did Trelawney give you the book?” Harry asked, and Hermione knew she couldn’t avoid it.  
  
“No, she…” Hermione began but hesitated. She had to tell them. Perhaps it was best this way. She wouldn’t have to bottle everything inside. At the same time, it was vastly uncomfortable for her to open up. There was something direly personal in these dreams. She was so used to keeping her thoughts and feelings tucked away, neatly folded and out of sight. Now they were seeping through the cracks, unbound by the confines of her mind. Her thoughts, dreams, nightmares were the toys of some malevolent force. Hermione yearned for an understanding ear but was reluctant all the same in fear of exposing her weakness. She wanted to cling to what little power she had left; cling to her autonomy, her independence, fearing any hesitancy would let slip all control.  
  
And what to say regarding Her?  
  
While Harry and Ron pursued girls for the Yule ball, a woman chased Hermione through her dreams. She was hardly reluctant prey. In those dreams, Hermione willingly relinquished control. Surrender was so easy where the slightest tilt of her head ushered such excitement and pleasure. How was Hermione to manage the paradox? To willingly resign herself to pleasure in the dream, but stand and fight horror in the nightmare? Worse yet, how to explain this intimate revelation to her friends? Sexuality wasn’t a comfortable subject for young adults their age. Harry and Ron had enough woman troubles, and whenever Parvati gushed over cute wizards in magazines she blushed and giggled and danced around the subject. Hermione knew she was no better. Rather than blush and giggle, or vent and moan, Hermione pretended her sexuality didn’t exist. This was no longer an option, though. Not with Her.  
  
“She didn’t have the book, but she…she told me of it,” Hermione confessed, figuring the diary the best place to begin. She told them of Heinrich Heine, of his diary entries confiscated by the French Ministry of Magic, his dreams of a similar dark creature and his mattress grave. She also told them Dumbledore’s involvement, and that he promised to track down the Unspeakable who filed the report. Hermione wasn’t keen on revealing the woman to her friends but found little else could explain her fainting spell in Trelawney’s office.  
  
“A woman?” Harry repeated.  
  
“Yes,” Hermione confirmed hesitantly, trying to look anywhere but the three curious faces. “Heine believed this woman influenced his dreams somehow, that she was responsible for them.”  
  
“Have you seen this woman?” Harry asked. Hermione huffed indignantly. Of course, he would ask. That was the next logical, insightful question, yet Hermione wished he had left the focus on Heine instead of her.  
  
“Yes and no,” Hermione admitted, cringing as the revelation swept over her friends. “I think I’ve dreamed of her before, but just never remembered. That’s why I fainted in Trelawney’s office — something just snapped as soon as she mentioned the Her Heine spoke of.”  
  
“If she’s the one causing your dreams, perhaps she can stop them,” Parvati said hopefully, excitement laced in her voice. Hermione wished she shared her optimism.  
  
“I don’t think she’s real,” Hermione confessed. “I didn’t even realize I was dreaming of her until Trelawney broached the subject, and even now I can’t seem to hear anything she says or discern any physical characteristics. I…I can’t even see her face.”  
  
“She talks?” Parvati said, “That doesn’t seem like your subconscious. You think this Giver is something external, why not her?” Hermione couldn’t find a proper argument against Parvati’s reasoning but was hesitant to believe such a thing. The woman’s existence seemed connected more to Hermione’s sexual desires than an external force. But it was more than sexual, wasn’t it? She could still feel the woman’s hands ghosting along her skin, guiding her, dancing with her. It was intimate, physically and emotionally. Hermione had never felt so much all at once, the comfort, closeness, excitement, and spontaneous thrill filled her heart with pure joy. Sexuality was a piece of this puzzle, certainly, but didn’t make up the whole. It was more akin to falling in love. Perhaps it was Hermione’s dormant longing for love that summoned this woman to her dreams, just as the loneliness Heine must have experienced being so far away from his German homeland summoned her. It was the most reasonable conclusion. Besides, how could such a woman be real? It was too perfect to be real. She was too perfect to be real.  
  
“I’m not sure,” Hermione responded.  
  
“Well, what exactly does this woman do in your dreams? Maybe there’s a clue there,” Harry said, and Hermione felt all of her blood rush to her face.  
  
“Oi, Hermione!” Fred and George appeared quick as pixies, popping up next to Parvati. Hermione didn’t think she had ever been so happy to see the Weasley twins.  
“What’s this about you being in the Hospital Wing again?” George asked, squeezing in between her and Ron.  
  
“We can’t have one of our Champions sick!” Fred contributed, sitting on her other side, forcing Harry clear off the sofa. Hermione found herself wedged between two towers topped with ginger hair, eyes probing for the latest gossip.  
  
“Oi, off with you!” Parvati called, rolling up her teen-witch magazine and smacking the twins away. Ron and Harry quickly reclaimed their seats. “She’s had enough excitement for today.”  
  
“Yeah, you prats!” Ron finished, clearly pleased the twins had been told off for a change.  
  
“Alright, we were just asking!” George called, keeping his arms up in defense. “Ron, can we borrow Pigwidgeon?”  
  
“No, he’s off delivering a letter,” Ron answered suspiciously. “Why?”  
  
“Because George wants to invite him to the ball,” Fred said, rolling his eyes.  
  
“Because we want to send a letter, you stupid great prat,” George finished.  
  
“Who d’you keep writing to, eh?” Ron asked, his ears reddening with every passing word.  
  
“Nose out, Ron, or I’ll burn that for you like you did your eyebrows,” Fred challenged, waving his wand about. “So…you lot got dates for the ball yet?”  
  
“Nope,” Ron responded.  
  
“Well, you’d better hurry up, mate, or all the good ones will be gone,” Fred said, and George nodded in agreement.  
  
“Who’re you going with, then?” Ron asked.  
  
“Angelina,” Fred said promptly.  
  
“What?” Ron said, taken aback. “You’ve already asked her?”  
  
“Good point,” Fred turned his head to where Angelina sat, chatting with Alicia Spinnet. “Oi! Angelina!”  
  
“What?” She called back.  
  
“Want to come to the ball with me?” The chaser paused for a moment, eyes squinting suspiciously before responding.  
  
“Alright, then,” she said before returning to her conversation.  
  
“There you go, piece of cake,” Fred said, mainly to Harry and Ron, before turning to George. “We’d better use a school owl then, George, come on…” The twins left in a frenzy of energy. Hermione wondered if their only mission in life was to harass Ron. He grumbled and stood from his seat, taking up his Exploding Snaps game once more.  
  
“We should get a move on, you know…ask someone. He’s right. We don’t want to end up with a pair of trolls.” Hermione’s eyes shot to Ron.  
  
“A pair of…what, excuse me?” Hermione said, hoping beyond hope she misheard.  
  
“Well — you know,” Ron shrugged. “I’d rather go alone than with — with Eloise Midgen, say.”  
  
“Her acne’s loads better lately — and she’s really nice!”  
  
“Her nose is off-center,” he said, dismissively.  
  
“Oh, I see,” Hermione hiss, anger rising. “So, basically, you’re going to take the best-looking girl who’ll have you, even if she’s completely horrible?”  
  
“Er — yeah, that sounds about right,” he nodded.  
  
“I’m going to bed,” she snapped.  
  
“Right behind you,” Parvati announced, giving Ron a nasty look before following Hermione up the stairwell. She was so frustrated she could scream — scream as loud as the blasted egg tucked under her bed. As soon as they stepped into the dorm, Parvati threw herself on Hermione’s bed.  
  
“I can’t see how you stand him sometimes,” she confessed, resting a dramatically weary arm over her eyes. “Ron is an absolute twat.”  
  
“He not all bad,” Hermione said, feeling obligated to defend her friend despite her frustrations. “He has his redeeming qualities.”  
  
“Such as?”  
  
“He’s incredibly loyal,” she responded instantly, sitting next to Parvati, “funny, protective, and, though he doesn’t bother thinking before he speaks, he can be smart.”  
  
“I’ll take your word for it,” Parvati sighed, “Because I think he’s an absolute twat.” Hermione couldn’t help but laugh, shaking her head.  
  
“You know, if Ron wasn’t acting like such a git and asked properly, I might not have minded going to the ball with him.”  
  
“That sounds horrible,” Parvati laughed, but Hermione pressed on.  
  
“No, it’s just…Thinking before speaking isn’t his forte, but fun is. We could dance and chat and enjoy ourselves, be done with this silly crusade for dates. But after what he said, well…I can’t imagine dangling off his arm just to be the status symbol he wants. That’s what it is, isn’t it? That’s why he’s so obsessed with this ridiculous ball — it’s male pride. The prettier the girl, the better he looks in front of the school. It’s so shallow! What hurts the most is he says these awful things right in front of me and I’m left to wonder…Is that all he really values in girls? Does he even realize I’m a girl? I know I’m not pretty or anything, but at least my nose is in the center of my face. ”  
  
“Oh, Hermione,” Parvati said, sitting up. “That’s not true. You’re very pretty.”  
  
“Thank you, but that’s not the point I’m trying to make,” she said, rolling her eyes. Even if Parvati said it, Hermione wasn’t inclined to believe such a thing. She was resigned to her lot in life, and that was that, no matter how many pretty words Parvati had for her. “The point is Ron doesn’t seem to think girls matter beyond their looks and…what does that mean for me? I know he values my intelligence, I’ve helped him with enough essays to prove that, so does he not even see me as a girl?”  
  
“Hermione, I’ll spell it out for you,” Parvati responded, wrapping an arm around Hermione’s shoulder. “Ron. Is. A. Twat.” Hermione giggled despite the tears welling in her eyes. “He’s a teenage boy. I doubt any of them see anything beyond their budding facial hair. They’re all just insecure. Ron isn’t exempt. Not even Harry is! Look at him — he mopes around, complaining about girls and the ‘mysterious’ nature of women, but plenty of girls have asked him to go to the ball, plenty of pretty and nice girls! Harry’s just too caught up in himself to see anything else. Ron’s the same. They’re just stupid boys,” Parvati finished with a shrug.  
  
“I feel like that last bit undercut a very good analysis of teenage masculinity, but I get the idea,” Hermione responded, sniffling into her sleeve.  
  
“Speaking of undercutting, well done trying to distract Harry and Ron via the nagging homework routine. Very smart, Granger.” Hermione cringed guiltily.  
  
“I’m just so used to them shutting down whenever ‘homework’ is uttered within earshot. I noticed that doesn’t quite work with you.”  
  
“Afraid not,” Parvati grinned, “but, then again, I don’t need anyone writing my essays for me like Ron. You never answered Harry’s question, either.”  
  
“I didn’t particularly want to, to be honest,” Hermione said.  
  
“Why? What’s the matter?”  
  
“It’s just…this woman, she…” She fought to find the right words, pitted every possibility in her head, but could think a way to explain without confessing the precarious nature of the woman’s presence.  
  
“Is she dangerous?” Parvati tried to help but only made Hermione groan.  
  
“That would be easier, wouldn’t it?” Hermione snapped, “If she were some evil villain! That would be a slim shade better than some— some— seductive fantasy.” Despite her tightly knitted nerves, Hermione almost laughed as Parvati’s dark eyes widened, gasping loudly before repeating,  
  
“Seductive fantasy?!” Parvati’s face burst into a grin.  
  
“You can imagine why I was reluctant to say anything to Harry and Ron,” Hermione mumbled miserably, burying her face in her hands. She dared to peek between her fingers only to find Parvati still sporting a sly grin, that same scandalous smile she wore when she and Lavender Brown spoke of boys and celebrities they fancied. “Oh, just— just—” In a bout of flustered fury, Hermione dug her notes from her bookbag, shoving them at the other girl. “Here! Just— just read!” This proved to be a mistake. Instead of feeling relieved, watching Parvati Patil read her most intimate, personal thoughts left her far more anxious than before. Every twitch of Parvati’s eyebrow, ever time she widened her eyes, or the slightest hint of a reaction, Hermione felt a shock of embarrassment shoot through her heart, leaving her chest tingling, yet cold. She was afraid to move at that point, afraid Parvati might mock her for her dreams, but her friend’s next comment wasn’t about the salacious nature of her subconscious rendezvous with the mysterious woman.  
  
“Legilimency?” Parvati read allowed, eyes shooting to Hermione. “You think this creature is using Legilimency?” Glad for the reprieve, Hermione jumped on the tangent.  
  
“It’s a possibility, isn’t it? Whatever this thing is, it isn’t from my subconscious, I can’t blame panic attacks or anxiety any longer. There’s too much evidence, too many coincidences and similarities between my dreams and Heinrich Heine’s diary entries, and the only ”  
  
“Then what about taking up Occlumency? Surely one of the professors is an Occlumens — you could shield your mind.” Hermione nodded in agreement.  
  
“I’ve been considering consulting Professor McGonagall on the matter. She would at least know who at Hogwarts knows Legilimency and Occlumency. It’s incredibly advanced magic.”  
  
“As if that’s ever stopped you before,” Parvati laughed, but Hermione felt her insides twist.  
  
“It’s not a matter of knowing the theories or learning technique,” she elaborated, “Learning Occlumency requires emotional discipline, and I’m not terribly confident in that area.”  
  
“That’s why you need a mentor,” Parvati pushed, grabbing Hermione’s hand as if to squeeze her doubt out through her fingertips. “You’re one of the smartest witches of our age, Hermione. You didn’t just earn that from talent — you worked for it. You have the discipline, but you need guidance.” Despite the tears welling in her eyes, Hermione smiled.  
  
“Thank you, Parvati.”  
  
“Of course. And Hermione…” Parvati hesitated, her face twisting in thought for a brief moment before she pressed on. “It’s alright, you know. Having those dreams. I get not wanting to tell Harry and Ron because, well, it’s a bit different with boys. A bit weirder to talk about. But with me, there’s no need to be embarrassed. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll take the mickey out of you, but that’s what friends do. We joke, and tease, and make fun of hard things to make them a bit more bearable. So if you ever need to talk, I’m here.” Hermione nodded, giving the other girl a small smile. Parvati seemed to take that as the end of the discussion, giving Hermione a little hug before bouncing off to the lavatory. Hermione shook her head and sat in front of her vanity, taking up her brush.  
  
As counterintuitive as it was, telling Parvati of the dreams and even a bit about the woman brought Hermione a surprising amount of relief. She felt lighter being able to share the burden. Perhaps that was why Harry often included her and Ron in his misadventures. Relying on a community was easier and more efficient than going it alone. The emotional benefit was enough to convince Hermione to speak with the boys the next day, perhaps even apologize for waylaying the conversation. Parvati had a point, speaking to them about the woman in her dreams would be awkward, downright mortifying, but Harry and Ron were her oldest friends — her best friends. If she couldn’t trust them with this, then who could she trust?  
  
As she combed through her mangled, bushy hair, Hermione’s mind became distracted seeing all of her imperfections. Her frizzy hair stretching as wide as her shoulders, the freckles on her face, and a blemish or two only hidden by her fringe.  
  
“Very pretty, indeed,” She muttered spitefully. She couldn’t recall the last compliment she got on her appearance before Parvati’s misguided attempt — couldn’t remember the last time anyone praised her features, called her pretty, or cute —  
  
Cute.  
  
Like a chipmunk. Little Tamia.  
  
Fleur called her that, hadn’t she? While she lamented the loss of Hermione’s overbite. She called her teeth cute… and said she would look adorable in blue. But Hermione didn’t have her overbite anymore and every day she wore gray lined with reds and yellows. With a sigh, Hermione crouched by her bed and withdrew the long, slim box that contained her dress.  
  
“Adorable in blue, hmm?” She whispered to herself, lifting the lid. Her fingers ran along the smooth material, appreciating the fine fabric. “Hopefully in periwinkle, as well.”

The week trudged on and Hermione attended classes as usual. While she was as dedicated as ever to her schooling, many professors had given up teaching altogether, distracted by the upcoming Yule Ball. Professor Flitwick doodled and mumbled to himself most of the class period. Professor Vector regaled a startled class with stories of her adolescence growing up in the sexual revolution of the sixties and seventies. Hagrid was preoccupied with the Beauxbatons’ Abraxon Winged Horses, having a bit of trouble keeping up their supply of single malt whiskey. Professor McGonagall stormed up and down the castle, ensuring every decoration was in place and every expectation was exceeded. The only professors interested in doing their jobs were Professor Binns and Professor Snape, though the former truly couldn’t comprehend the environment around him and the latter still chose to make Hermione’s academic life a living hell with a surplus of simplistic exercises and assignments.  
  
As for time spent outside of class, Hermione found her days distracted by one person or another. Never had she been so popular. In the mornings, Parvati pounced on her, chatting of school and boys and the Yule ball as they prepared for the day. Soon enough, Lavender Brown joined the conversation, behaving decently enough (Hermione had the impression this was Parvati’s doing more than a change of heart on Lavender’s part). When Harry and Ron joined them for breakfast, her party doubled in size and burst with energy, everyone talking all at once. The loudest voices were Parvati and Ron squabbling back and forward. Every morning she felt a pang of guilt upon seeing the boys. Hermione had yet to confide in them or show them her notes on the Giver and the woman, but whenever she thought of broaching the subject it seemed out of place. Harry and Ron were distracted by their own trouble with women, at any rate, still fretting over dates for the ball.  
  
On more than one occasion that week, Gabrielle slipped away from the Ravenclaw table to saddle by Hermione’s side, speaking in rapid French and bewildering the entirety of Gryffindor table. The first time this happened, Hermione expected Fleur to march over and correct the situation but was startled to find the Veela laughing across the hall with Edric and Adelaide. As Fleur enjoyed her breakfast in peace, Hermione could barely get a bite in with the overzealous child demanding her attention. Fleur made sure Hermione knew she was thoroughly entertained, sending her a whimsical wink or a salacious smirk every so often. Hermione simply rolled her eyes and dedicate her breakfast to entertaining the little Veela.  
  
After classes, Fleur seemed to always know where Hermione was. Sneaking up behind her, waiting around the next corner, stationed at the bottom of the stairwell — Fleur Delacour was everywhere.  
  
Neville nearly walked into a wall once, staring and gaping, when Fleur came calling after Potions. She never seemed keen on sharing Hermione, favoring instead to whisk the Gryffindor away from the rest of her pride. They walked the halls (Hermione pointing out interesting facts and tidbits of knowledge she learned in Hogwarts: A History), walked about the grounds (Fleur shivered so dramatically Hermione had no choice other than to offer her scarf to the poor Veela), and Hermione even showed Fleur the Blast-Ended Skrewts at Hagrid’s Hut (She didn’t blame Fleur for being put off, but found her revulsion hilarious, all the same).  
  
Every now and then, Adelaide and Edric trailed after them, either in a state of perfect union or bickering incessantly. Either way, Fleur’s attention remained on Hermione, smiling, teasing, poking, prodding, doing anything to engage her. Fleur still frustrated her with the odd pretentious comment, but Hermione was happy to find an educated, well-read mind beneath the pretty face. They discussed books, articles, their favorite subjects in school, places they had been and always wanted to go. Hermione couldn’t help but revel in all of the attention. For the first time in her academic career, she found herself anticipating the end of class, longing for the moment when she saw Fleur. When evening finally parted them, Fleur bade her farewell with a kiss on each cheek. A customary goodbye in some parts of France, if Hermione remembered correctly, though she was still English and still modest enough to blush every time.  
  
As wonderful as her new social life was, Hermione found it all utterly exhausting. So, while the rest of Hogwarts was distracted by the glamour and excitement of the Yule Ball, Hermione set up her own little sanctuary in the library. In the back corner, away from prying eyes, she pushed two large tables together and stacked towering heaps of books on it. When she needed to recharge, she escaped to her clever little book-nook. Only the rumble of reminiscent noise could be heard so far back in the library, sound waves still bouncing back and forth on the high walls.  
  
On one such evening when Hermione felt the need to isolate herself, she raided the library for a variety of books and settled in her sanctuary. Stacked on her desk, there were books on every subject she needed — a stack with titles such as Screaming in Magical Nature: Calls and Voices of the World, Encyclopedia of Eggs, and Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them for research on the second task, History of the Common House Elf, Ministry Laws on the Regulation of Magical Creatures, and Elves in the Home for S.P.E.W., and Divinations, Dreams, and Omens, Guide to Advanced Occlumency, and and Protection Charm Your Mind: A Practical Guide to Counter Legilimency for her own personal issues.  
  
After the uncertainty of the last few weeks, it was a comfort to return to books. There was a grand sense of liberty, the idea that she could pick up any of those books and start reading, learning, absorbing the content. There was endless possibility in being surrounded by books, a variety of topics to learn, a never-ending thrill of potential. Hermione didn’t feel so lost or helpless among books. In the library, she could hunt for answers and ponder conundrums.  
  
Hermione stood from her nook and skipped about the library. She found her way towards the magical creatures section, wondering if they had any more books on creatures that screamed and shrieked. She seemed to have read every book involving screams, but she had yet to find a whiff or hint or relations between a scream and a golden egg. She found Ululations, Mating calls and noises of Magical Nature and, although she had already skimmed the pages, she picked it up in desperation. Her eyes scanned the table of contents, hoping to catch something she missed, something that might help with the second task. Something did catch her eye, but it didn’t pertain to the screaming egg hidden under her bed. On page one-hundred-and-twenty-five, chapter seventeen was titled: Veela and Song.  
  
Excitement rose in her chest. She never considered researching Veela. Not until now. Perhaps if she understood more about Veela she might understand Fleur a bit better. Or, at the very least, she would have something to discuss with the blonde, something to impress her with. With a rush of renewed enthusiasm, Hermione gathered as many books on Veela as she could. There was hardly a book dedicated to Veela. Most of the information was listed in other texts, like The Fantastic Encyclopedia of Faeries and Where to Find Them, Creatures of the Woods: Faeries, Nymphs, and Sprites, and Sirens and Ryselkies, though this book only mentioned them briefly, stating Ryselkies were distant relatives of Veela.  
  
The Encyclopedia said Veela originated in Eastern Europe and had since migrated to nearly every country, though large groups, known as gaggles, were more prominent in western Europe, such as France and Germany, where the laws were more lenient towards magical creatures. She read something about the birthplace of Veela, somewhere in the Velebit mountain range in Croatia, but there was no further information.  
  
Other than those factual tidbits, there were more romanticized reports of Veela, things akin to Muggle superstitions. Creatures of the Woods: Faeries, Nymphs, and Sprites, claimed Veela were more comfortable in nature, sleeping among the trees, rivers, oceans, and glens. Veela, like many faeries, could set up Faery Circles and mischievously lure people into them. Veela were not subjectively labeled good or bad by wizarding sources, but rather blessed or cursed people according to their mood. That’s when an oddity within terminology caught her eye.  
  
The term ‘Born Veela’ kept cropping up in her studies; however, she saw no distinction to parallel this term. What other type of Veela could there be? Then Hermione remembered Fleur mentioning something of born Veela. Something regarding dilution of blood — she had thought Fleur was simply saying all Veela born with certain amounts of blood were considered Veela in their social circles, but what if Fleur was saying Born Veela as a title, as the books described?  
  
“Samovila?” Hermione jumped at the sound and turned to see Viktor Krum standing over here, eyes fixed on her books.  
  
“What?” She asked, annoyed by the interruption.  
  
“Samovila,” he repeated, pointing to one of the entries of Veela. “That is vat they are in Bulgaria. There is a large gaggle. They dance for Bulgaria’s Quidditch team.”  
  
“Oh,” Hermione responded, blushing slightly, realizing she had been short with him. “Oh, I see. Thank you, Viktor. That will give me another term to search.”  
  
“Why do you want to know of Samovila?” Krum asked. “They are not good.”  
  
“That’s not true,” she said a bit too quickly. “Not all of them can be bad. I mean,” she gestured to the Encyclopedia. “They say they can be mischievous, but that can be said for nearly all faeries, brownies, and any misunderstood creature. Wizards’ opinions of creatures have always been a prejudice.”  
  
“You do not understand,” he said, “They are cursed.” Hermione paused at this, eyes jumping to Viktor’s dark gaze.  
  
“Cursed?” She repeated. “I haven’t read anything about a curse.”  
  
“It is…sad tale. One not many know — Samovila are cursed. They did something bad and were cursed to live without knowing love.”  
  
“Love?” Hermione raised an eyebrow, “Honestly, Viktor, are you sure this isn’t a muggle superstition?”  
  
“I heard from Samovila themselves.” He gave a nod as if this properly justified his claim. “Samovila are cursed to never find True Love.” Hermione was embarrassed at how easily she laughed, but the laugh escaped before she could contain it.  
  
“I’m sorry,” she said, covering her mouth, composing herself for a moment before continuing. “I’m not sure that’s actually possible — the idea of True Love. Maybe it’s a cultural tale, perpetuated in their own superstitions. There’s no evidence True Love even exists.” Krum gave her a shy smile, averting his gaze. “But I do appreciate the information!” She said quickly, realizing she sounded ungrateful. “It’s very interesting and very nice of you to help.”  
  
“You are velcome,” he said, and Hermione thought he might take his leave but he stood over her awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot.  
  
“Is,” she hesitated, “Is there something else?”  
  
“I vould like to ask you,” he began, slowly. “Um…” To Hermione’s surprised he looked rather nervous. Usually, Viktor Krum stood tall, intimidating, solemn, but he looked shy and small. “I haff a confession.”  
  
“Alright,” Hermione responded, “Would you care to sit?”  
  
“No,” Viktor shook his head, “I feel good standing.” She nodded, still befuddled. Did this have to do with the tournament? Could Viktor be asking for help with the egg? She highly doubted it. He performed well in the first task with a beautifully performed Conjuntivis curse. She couldn’t imagine he required assistance. “I haff been coming to here,” he gestured to the library before continuing. “Because I…want to see you.”  
  
“See me?” Hermione asked, “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”  
  
“To not only see you — to talk. You are very pretty,” Viktor blurted out, and Hermione suddenly understood. She knew her expression must have startled Viktor, but she couldn’t help but gape at him. He rushed to recover, raising his hands. “But I could never gather courage. I vas surprised to see you in tournament but you are very strong and I — I.” He paused, running a shaky hand through his dark hair. “I am sorry, I am no good at speaking vith vomen.”  
  
“That’s, um,” Hermione tried to respond, though her pitch came out a bit higher than she wanted. He looked as frazzled as she felt, her mind panicking. “That’s alright. You must not have many female friends.”  
  
“No,” Viktor confessed, “Most girls are not like you.”  
  
“Not like me?”  
  
“Not,” he paused, appearing to search for the right word. “Respectful? Of themselves. Most girls follow me, talk of me in secret. This is not good. A confident person does not do this.”  
  
“I’m afraid fame must have tainted your image of women,” Hermione commented, “Though I understand what you mean, it can’t be easy—”  
“Vould you go to the Yule ball vith me?” Viktor asked, rather loudly, she couldn’t help but notice. There was an audible number of gasps from behind the bookshelves, telling her Viktor’s fan club had arrived.  
  
For a moment, Hermione didn’t know what to do. She had decided to ask someone, someone who wouldn’t want to accompany her for fame or attention. But Viktor couldn’t possibly want that. He was already famous and a Triwizard champion, besides. She wondered if he intended something nefarious, something that would affect her performance in the competition; however, gazing into Viktor’s face she couldn’t imagine a nefarious thought had ever entered his head. He looked half terrified, dark eyebrows furrowed, eyes wide in anticipation, ready to stomp off and lick his wounds. Either he was a very good actor, something Hermione thought highly unlikely, or he really did find her…attractive. The notion made Hermione feel uncomfortable but flattered all the same. When he wasn’t scowling Viktor was, now that she had a good look at him, quite handsome. Maybe not a traditional sense of handsome, but he was strong and chiseled. There was a gentleness that Hermione found to be the most attractive quality of all. She took a deep breath and responded,  
  
“Yes.” For a moment she wasn’t sure he understood. He stared at her hesitantly, like a skittish dog. “Yes,” She reaffirmed, “I’d love to go to the ball with you.” He let out a sigh of relief, breaking out a rare smile, which turned into just another quality she found handsome.  
  
“Good,” he beamed, nodding. “Good! I vill speak vith you later, yes?” She nodded and watched him leave, noticing for once he didn’t stomp but practically bounced from the library. She smiled, feeling her cheeks heat up.  
  
The situation turned out better than she could have hoped. While Harry and Ron fretted and pulled their hair out over dancing partners Hermione had procured a date, and not just someone to go with, but someone who actually liked her. She couldn’t say she returned those feelings, but there were little things about Viktor Krum she couldn’t say she disliked. Things that might become things she liked very much. The gentle way he spoke, for instance. Or how, for someone so large and intimidating, he seemed thoughtful and insightful. Or how, despite all those vain girls bouncing around him for attention, he sought someone with a mind instead of beauty. Or that, Hermione felt a smile tug at her lips, he thought she was pretty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, usually I don't care to explain my decisions regarding the story unless directly asked, but I feel I should regarding Hermione going to the ball with Viktor. So many readers asked that Hermione go the ball with someone else, often anyone else but Viktor, To be perfectly honest, Viktor was my original choice but I decided to take another look at the story in light of these requests to see if it would be better and plausible to pair Hermione with someone else, or if it was likely she and Fleur could go together. After analyzing the story as it is and the original text, I found it improbable that Hermione would go with anyone else but Viktor. 
> 
> Here's why: 
> 
> Hermione's character at this point hasn't made a connection between romantic feelings and her feelings and interest in Fleur, nor does she have the self-esteem to ask Fleur to the ball. It's literally not even a thought in her head that it's a possibility. I really wanted to find a way that she might, so I fiddled with the storyline. I really tried, but the equation just didn't add up -- not without some really weird accident or coincidence that would be highly unlikely. I don't like coincidences in my stories. I feel they are lazy. If a writer needs a coincidence to get the characters from point A to point B, then there isn't enough development, which is just sloppy. You, as the readers, deserve better than sloppy storytelling. 
> 
> As for the possibility of Fleur asking, I found it highly unlikely she would, even though she IS aware of her attraction for Hermione. I feel this is obvious given the last chapter, so hopefully, this doesn't spoil anything for you. I really liked the idea of Fleur wooing Hermione, and she does a bit in the story, but in the fourth book Fleur had a very similar situation with Cedric Diggery. Harry notes how she flirts and corners Cedric whenever she can, trying to get him to ask her to the ball. This, I thought, made a lot of sense considering Fleur is so used to being chased. She is a Veela, there are always people looking for her attention. To Fleur, the attention she's giving Hermione acts as a green light for Hermione to ask her to the ball, but as I already established, this isn't even a possibility in Hermione's head. Fleur would relinquish all responsibility to Hermione, and Hermione would, in turn, be completely oblivious. 
> 
> The only one with any intention of asking Hermione to the ball that she would accept is, of course, Viktor Krum, which is why he won out at the end of my analysis. Viktor Krum meets Hermione's criteria of not seeking attention by escorting her, being famous in his own right, and even has feelings for her. This charms Hermione, who isn't used to being courted like Fleur is. Viktor courts Hermione's insecurities with flattery. It's not malevolent or anything. He honestly likes her, which is clear in the books. Given this direct and clear message of romantic interest (a message Fleur is very bad at relaying) Hermione would, I believe, respond well and accept, as she did in the books.
> 
> I decided to post so many chapters at once so I didn't leave you guys with this as some dramatic cliff hanger. The whole Viktor/Hermione coupling isn't prominent in this story and won't last long. If anything, it'll help Fleur and Hermione understand each other a bit better in the future. 
> 
> If you have any comments or critiques, feel free to comment. I'll try to respond in a timely manner.
> 
> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed the chapter and the chapters to follow, 
> 
> Jekaterina


	9. Fancy

As the end of term came about so came the snow. Hogwarts’ picturesque winter fell upon the castle once more, but unlike previous seasons the castle was crowded with loud, boisterous students, all excited for the upcoming ball. It was all anyone wanted to discuss. Never mind the mountainous amount of homework assigned over the winter holiday, never mind the golden egg that had yet to yield its secrets, never mind Dumbledore’s silence, and never mind someone was out to murder Harry again — no, the Yule ball held precedent over it all. Despite her frustration over everyone's’ lack of insight, Hermione found the electric atmosphere intoxicating and couldn’t help but be swept away in the festivities. For the first time in months, she allowed herself to forget her woes and worries and simply enjoy life.   
  
Now that Harry and Ron finally had dates, Hermione no longer had to listen to their incessant whining over the wiles of women. She traded their whining for Parvati’s panic attacks over escorting Harry to the ball. For an hour every night, the Gryffindor threw about makeup and accessories, trying to decide which would accommodate her dress or match Harry’s dressrobes. Lavender simply pouted on Parvati’s bed, apparently woeful at missing her chance with Ron.   
  
Hermione assured her she wasn’t missing anything, still boiling over Ron’s insensitive display early that week. It still upset her, the objectified look he gave her and his utterly incompetent comment. Hermione could not wrap her head around it.   
  
“ _Hermione, Neville’s right — you are a girl…_ ”   
  
Honestly! Of all the things to say! Especially after their previous argument! What was Ron expecting, asking her to the ball like that? Like she was in reserve just waiting to see if things panned out for him and Harry as if she didn’t have her own expectations, her own desires, her own picture of the evening she wanted? He even accused her of lying about having a date, as if the notion was so vastly improbable! He had been, in Parvati’s wise words, an absolute twat.   
  
Hermione tried setting the matter aside for the sake of their friendship, trusting and hoping Ron’s comments came from a place of simple stupidity rather than malicious intent. This was easier said than done as Ron pestered her constantly, taking every opportunity to ask, “who are you going with?” Safe to say, Ron was not giving Hermione much confidence, especially in regards to telling him and Harry of the woman. His erratic behavior was the perfect excuse for her to remain silent on the issue, only speaking with Parvati about the more delicate nature of her dreams.   
  
There was only one other person behaving oddly as of late, and that was Fleur Delacour. As the Yule ball drew closer, the Veela’s focus of conversation narrowed to the fateful night. She told Hermione what her dress looked like, what music she was excited for, her absurdly high expectations regarding decorations and food, and how thrilled she was to dance all night long in a ridiculous pair heels. Not too high, Fleur insisted, though Hermione couldn’t imagine a higher pair of heels being difficult for Fleur. Despite these flights of fancy, Hermione sensed an underlining agitation. It was in her prying stare, the tension in her voice, the way she pouted, the intense sparks behind her crystal blue eyes. She bit her lip, crossed her arms, tapped her foot — Fleur was hardly hiding her symptoms. The only mystery was the cause. Perhaps she was, like Hermione, nervous regarding the whole affair. What Fleur Delacour had to be nervous about, she couldn’t imagine, but Hermione was quick to change the subject upon sensing Fleur’s discomfort in the hopes of easing the Veela’s woes.   
  
On Wednesday, Hermione sat at the Gryffindor table between Harry and Parvati, eyes flitting between her glass of pumpkin juice and the Ravenclaw table where Fleur Delacour conversed sourly with Adelaide Antioch and Cho Chang. What could upset Fleur so? Sitting at the Gryffindor table, eating a lovely breakfast, conversing with her friends, Hermione should have been delighted, reveling in the fact that most everything for the first time all year seemed in relative order. She had a date to the ball, Harry was finally enjoying himself, and despite her spat with Ron her friends seemed in high spirits. Even her dreams had lessened over the last week, allowing Hermione the sleep she so desperately needed. Instead of enjoying the Christmas break, there she sat, obsessing over Fleur Delacour.   
  
Blue eyes rose to meet her gaze. Suddenly, Hermione found nothing more fascination than her eggs and bacon, a nervous hand reaching to rub the back of her neck. Against basic instinct, she looked up, meeting the Veela’s stare. There was something strange in the moment. Fleur’s frustration ebbed away and a sense of awkward familiarity settled over them — a comfortable feeling, yet entirely novel. It was that queer stirring in Hermione’s stomach, that nervous jitter inside her chest. It was also the rising heat in her throat upon seeing her scarf still wrapped around Fleur’s fair shoulders, an odd…satisfaction? Satisfaction from Fleur finding use in the scarf? Perhaps satisfaction that Fleur had yet to complain how the scarf conflicted with her uniform or the inferior quality of the material? Despite the thousand of emotions swirling, Hermione didn’t flinch away and held Fleur’s gaze this time around. The Veela’s lips curled into a small smile before flashing her a cheeky wink. Hermione returned it with a tight, awkward smile.  
  
“Who are you going with?” Ron’s voice cut into the moment, and Hermione couldn’t picture anything sweeter than drowning him at the bottom of the Black lake. She redirected her attention to Ron, but his eyes were scanning the Ravenclaw table. “Is it a Ravenclaw bloke?”  
  
“For the last time, I’m not saying, Ron,” Hermione responded.  
  
“Probably some brainy git…” Ron growled, but before Hermione could, Parvati kicked Ron under the table.   
  
“Ow! What was that for?!” Ron howled.   
  
“You’re going with one of those brainy gits, Weasley. My sister. If Harry hadn’t asked so nicely, you’d be going stag. Why don’t you be thankful for once instead of taking it out on Hermione?”   
  
“I wasn’t doing anything!” Ron argued, but Parvati didn’t deign to respond. She instead turned to Hermione.   
  
“So, how did it happen, anyway? How did he ask you? Or,” Parvati grinned, “did you ask him?”   
  
“I can see that,” Lavender Brown giggled beside Parvati, “Hermione wearing the trousers.”   
  
“He, um…” Hermione hesitated, eyes darting to the Slytherin table where Viktor sat next to Draco Malfoy. They spoke briefly since his invitation, mainly regarding plans to meet before the ball. In an adorable, awkward moment, Viktor offered her a red rose corsage to match his own dressrobes. It was tucked away with her dress, pristine in its’ glass box. A bit traditional for her taste, but the gesture was so sweet she couldn’t find it in herself to complain. She had only told Parvati and Ginny who she was attending with. She wanted to surprise Ron with Viktor, hoping it might drag him out of whatever crazed fit he seemed stuck in. What more could Ron ask for than to spend an entire night with his Quidditch idol? “No, he actually asked me. In the library.”   
  
“Of course he did,” Lavender rolled her eyes, “Where else would Hermione Granger find a date but the library?”   
  
“How is that Potions essay coming, Lavender?” Hermione snipped back, raising an eyebrow. “Figured your antidotes from your poisons yet?”   
  
“We can get some ingredients, Granger, and you can help me figure it out—”   
  
“That’s enough out of you two,” Parvati intervened, waving a threatening fork at the unruly pair. “Next I’ll have to put you in corners.”   
  
“Granger wants the corner nearest the Ravenclaw table,” Lavender said, shooting Hermione a little smirk. “Right, Hermione?”   
  
Her cheeks flushed at the odd expression playing on Lavender’s face, eyes quickly darting to the aforementioned table. Hermione’s heart sank seeing Fleur had vacated her spot. It only took a quick search to find a flash of powder blue. The Veela was walking towards the Entrance hall, Edric and Adelaide by her side.   
  
“Sorry, I have to go,” she dismissed herself from her friends, hoping to catch up with Fleur.   
  
Ever since reading of Veela, Hermione couldn’t shake certain questions from her mind. Veela were, from what she could surmise, extremely traditional creatures, but the very definition of what constituted a Veela was staggeringly undefined. The term ‘Born’ Veela confounded her, driving her mad with curiosity. If there was anyone in Hogwarts with the answers, it was Fleur Delacour; though, Hermione had yet to find a proper way to inquire. What if she found Hermione’s query irritating? What’s more, how would Hermione explain her interest in Veela? She couldn’t claim purely academic reasons, couldn’t boast of a paper to write or test to take. It was the holiday, and she had already shown Fleur the Blast-Ended Skrewts, thus eradicating the only class where Veelas may have been a potential topic of discussion. She thought for a second Defense Against the Dark Arts might have been a viable alternative, but that was preposterous. Veela had historically acted as a bridge between Wizards and creatures, an odd political and cultural bridge between the two worlds.   
  
No, if Hermione wanted answers, she would have to confess she wanted to know about Veela to impress Fleur. It was intimidating, saying such a thing to someone so vain. Her insides squirmed as she walked up the Gryffindor table towards the Entrance Hall. But, in the end, what was she frightened of? Fleur was more than the vapid and vain French tart Hermione first assumed her to be. She was bright, affectionate, and interesting. Perhaps she might even be impressed with Hermione’s initiative, flattered by her interest in her heritage. With renewed vigor, she jogged the rest of the way, stopping only when she was directly behind Fleur.   
  
“Fleur,” she called, reaching for Fleur’s arm. The Veela turned on her heel with a huff, but quickly changed her tune when she saw Hermione. “May I have a word in private?” The blonde seemed surprised but smiled at the question.   
  
“Oui,” Fleur said, blue eyes flickering to Adelaide and Edric. “I will see you later.”   
  
“Don’t rush on our account,” Edric grinned before wagging a mock finger at Hermione “Have her back before nine, young lady—”  
  
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, you and your entourage,” Hermione rolled her eyes, grabbing a giggling Fleur by the arm and dragging her away. With a short-cut behind the tapestry of a skeleton doing the jig, Hermione led Fleur down the eastern corridor. Soon they found themselves outdoors near the staircase to the lake house.   
  
The morning light fought valiantly against gray skies, warm and luminous through the clouds, but only met the water’s surface with a mild, blurry shimmer. Fleur smiled radiantly as she stood by the stone wall overlooking the lake, arms folded behind her back, a rhythmic sway to her body. The Gryffindor scarf swung with her, brushing from hip to hip. Hermione tried to quell the odd sensation squirming in her stomach. It was something about how Fleur was looking at her. It was curious, enticing, almost flaunting. It was akin to how a cat teased and wiggled about, drawing the other cat near before batting a paw and jumping away only to repeat the process. Hermione swallowed her nerves and spoke.  
  
“I’m sorry to pull you away. I just have a quick question for you,” Hermione began hesitantly. Fleur shook her head, her blond hair cascading down passed her shoulders. Those golden strands were almost blinding, catching rays of sunlight. When had Fleur started wearing her hair down?  
  
“No, no, zat is no trouble. Do not worry of such,” Fleur insisted. “Oh! I almost forgot—” From a little powder blue purse hanging at her side, Fleur withdrew a envelope with Fleur Delacour written in messy golden handwriting. She pulled several scrappy pieces of parchment from the envelope along with one tidy letter. “Zis came from Madame Roux zis morning!” Hermione’s insides jumped at the mention of the Beauxbatons’ Charms professor. All thoughts of her previous intent fled.   
  
“Francine Roux? Why is she writing?” She asked, stepping quickly towards the blonde, eyes raking across the papers curiously.   
  
“I may ‘ave mentioned you in my last letter to ‘er,” Fleur giggled mischievously, biting her tongue playfully.  
  
“You—” Hermione stuttered. “You mentioned— Why?! What in Merlin’s name for?!”  
  
“Come now, mon amie! You cast ze spell zat even ze Eenglish ministry is afraid to try and ‘re surprised when it is spoken of? Adorable!” Fleur laughed.   
  
“Merlin’s beard, you told her?!” Hermione gasped, “What did she say? No! Don’t tell me. I don’t think I can take it. Was it good?” She gasped, hands shooting to cover her gaping mouth. “Was she offended?! She must think me horrible, trying such a dangerous spell with no safety precautions! It was hardly a controlled enough environment for such a thing!”   
  
“No, no, no— come now, none of zis!” Fleur laughed, rushing to take the hyperventilating Gryffindor in hand. Hermione had grown accustomed to Fleur’s friendly nature, the way the Veela held her hands, leaned in close, brushed her forearm softly. Still, when Fleur cupped her face, rubbing her thumbs across her reddening cheeks, Hermione felt more flustered than comforted. “She was impressed, mon amie! She zought ze ministry should ‘ave ‘ad ze courage to do ze same! She laughed to find a student ‘ad done it! She also zought zat,” Fleur released Hermione’s face to unfold the letter in her hands. Hermione suddenly realized she had stopped breathing until she inhaled a sharp, startled breath. The fluttering stomach, the blush in her cheeks, the way her heart raced at a single touch — what in Merlin’s name was Fleur Delacour doing to her?! “You might care for zese!” Fleur presented the scrappy pieces of parchment. “‘Er papers on ‘er research!”  
  
Hermione gasped, eyes raking over messy notes and scribbles — clearly the work of a racing mind. Carefully, Hermione accepted the papers. It held similar topics to the published paper; however, these papers had extra notes, observations, theories, and questions that weren’t included in the original publication.   
  
“This—” Hermione gapped, flipping through the pages, eyes searching but too shocked to truly read. “This is— how did you—?”   
  
“I told you,” Fleur said smugly, tilting her head so that her blond hair shook about. “Madame Roux is quite fond of me, and I zought you might like it.”   
  
“Thank you, Fleur,” Hermione laughed, more from hysteria than humor. “Oh, you always have to rile me, don’t you?”   
  
“Zis is not difficult, mon amie,” The Veela said, snaking an arm around Hermione’s as they turned to look over the lake. Fleur laced her fingers with Hermione’s, the blonde’s other hand gliding her nails across Hermione’s knuckles. She couldn’t help but notice how pudgy her fingers looked next to Fleur’s. The Veela’s hands were so delicate, yet her grip was firm. It wasn’t aggressive, nor unpleasant. It was…reassuring. They were so close, Hermione felt a bit overwhelmed by Fleur’s perfume. The Veela was rather heavy handed. Chanel number 5? She wasn’t entirely sure.  
  
“Please, a little mercy might be needed. My nerves are rattled enough as it is.”   
  
“You ‘re nervous?” Fleur eyes darting back and forth between Hermione’s. “What of?”   
  
“Honestly, it’s everything at the moment. The second task is looming in the distance, I suddenly have more and more people seeking my attention, the Yule ball is just around the corner and you—” Hermione paused, unsure of how to continue. What of Fleur?   
  
“Oui?” Fleur prompted, biting her lip, a hesitant smile playing at her lips.   
  
“I—” Hermione paused, but pushed forward in the name of honesty. “I’m not quite sure. You’ve always made me a bit nervous, Fleur.”   
  
“‘Ow so?” She asked.   
  
“Well, the thing is, you’re quite intimidating, aren’t you?” Hermione huffed. “You’re so confident, so precocious. It was easy enough to hold a grudge when you were just a vapid pretty face, but you’re so smart, and kind, and thoughtful — well, I suppose that’s all just a bit much to measure up to.”   
  
“You measure up, ma chérie,” Fleur responded quickly. Hermione gave a nervous laugh, averting her eyes.   
  
“Well, thank you, that’s very kind.”   
  
“I do not say zis to be kind,” Fleur continued, “I say zis because it is true. Even I can see you were born for great zings.”   
  
“Born,” Hermione repeated, remembering her original intention. “Right, I’ve been…um… perusing a few books on Veela—” Hermione paused, watching a smile stretch across Fleur’s face.   
  
“Perusing?” The twitter of Fleur’s voice, the amusement dancing with every giggle of her voice. “You were reading of Veela?”  
  
“No! Well, that is, yes, I have,” Hermione attempted to recover, but kept stumbling word to word, distracted by Fleur’s bright smile and the way her blond hair rolled over the Veela’s shoulder. “That’s what I wanted to ask you, actually.” Hermione inhaled a deep breath before freeing her arm from Fleur’s grasp. She withdrew the Encyclopedia of Faeries and Where to Find Them from her bookbag, flipping to page Two-hundred-and-thirty-two. “I keep finding the term ‘Born’ Veela. I recall you said something on it once, something regarding being born Veela.” She paused for a moment, hoping Fleur would recognize the reference, perhaps even acknowledge it happened. The Veela didn’t, however. Fleur’s smile began to fall, lips collapsing into a pout as her thin eyebrows furrowed, eyes darting from the Encyclopedia to Hermione. This was not expected. Surely Fleur remembered? Or was it the Encyclopedia that confused her? “There’s a section on Veela here, just above ‘Will-o-the-whips.’ At first, I assumed the capitalization on ‘Born’ was simply a printing error, but repetition made me realize it was some sort of title or categorization. There’s little enough information regarding Veela as their own individual culture, and I haven’t found hide nor hair of a definition-”  
  
“Zis,” Fleur interrupted, tapping an agitated finger on Hermione’s book. “Zis is what you wish to ask me?”   
  
“I, um,” Hermione hesitated, insides jumping at the sudden anger rising on the Veela’s face. Fleur raised a thin eyebrow at her hesitation. All of its’ previous mischief was lost, suddenly sharp and persistent. “Yes, I was curious. I’m sorry if that’s inappropriate of me. I didn’t even consider it would be a sensitive topic — perhaps even culturally so.” Snapping the book closed, she tucking it back into her bookbag, hoping to quell the conflict. So many of their conversations ended with bad blood, so many opportunities lost to misunderstanding or sensitivities. Hermione could brush off her curiosity. De-escalating the tension was far more important.  
  
It never escalated, however.   
  
As Hermione’s heart raced, fearing the explosion, Fleur remained perfectly still. There was a tightness in her jaw, a flair in her nostrils, but no sound escaped her. Finally, Fleur moved away from Hermione. She turned and walked away, heels clicking on the wet stone.   
  
“Fleur?” Hermione called after her, but she did not slow, did not pause or hesitate. She simply kept walking. “Fleur, wait!” She rushed after Fleur, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it.”   
  
“Not now,” Fleur practically growled in French, still refusing to turn about. “I will — talk later,” was all she said before storming off towards the grounds.   
  
“But—” Hermione tried to argue, tried to call her back, but her throat tightened at the sight of Fleur’s retreat, tears pricking her eyes. “I didn’t mean—” She tried again, but only managed a hoarse whisper. Gritting her teeth and clenching her eyes shut, Hermione did the only thing she could rightly think to do. She withdrew the encyclopedia from her bag and threw it in the lake.

“You threw a book into the lake?!” Lavender Brown laughed from her place by the fire, Crookshanks traitorously curled up in her arms, contently purring in her embrace.   
“I summoned it as soon as it hit the water,” Hermione murmured miserably, trying to defend herself while wallowing in guilt. Seated in front of the fire, she fiddled with the soggy encyclopedia, unfurling the pages to help them dry. The old parchment refused to cooperate, several clumped pages tearing during the course of her efforts. It took several Reparo incantations to get the book to behave, though she had no quick way of drying it safely.   
  
After sinking into foul misery over her failure with Fleur, Hermione knew she had to confide in someone if only to vent her frustration before she exploded. She deemed Parvati the best candidate. As much as she loved Harry, he hadn’t shown much knowledge or maturity as of late. Ron wasn’t even a contender as he was so utterly affected by Fleur’s thrall he could hardly string two thoughts together when she was mentioned in passing. Therefore — Parvati, tried and true in the face of embarrassing and awkward conversation. Hermione figured if she could discuss her sexual fantasies with Parvati, her conundrum with Fleur would be easy. Hermione kidnapped the twin from dinner, dragging her back to their dormitory for a bit of privacy. Much to her chagrin, Lavender came part in parcel. She seemed less interested in Hermione’s emotional distress and more amused by her uncharacteristic disregard for school property.  
  
“Merlin’s beard, Hermione!” Parvati gasped, “I didn’t even know you were chummy with Fleur Delacour!”   
  
“I can’t imagine why not,” Hermione shook her head, abandoning the encyclopedia and falling back onto the carpet. “It’s not exactly hidden. She’s been abducting me after lessons this last week to parade me around the grounds.” Crookshanks abandoned Lavander’s lap to lay on Hermione’s stomach, kneading her sweater a few times before curling into a ball. Great. Now she couldn’t move. She was stuck there, sprawled out on the floor, trapped under her cat. Rather suiting, as Parvati’s questions gave the impression she was tied to an examination table, poked and prodded for scandalous details.   
  
“What exactly do you do together?”   
  
“We…We just talk. We discuss France, the differences in our education systems, laws, political beliefs — I even showed her the Blast-Ended Skrewts. She was not impressed.”   
  
“Blimey, I was expecting hair tips, not social sciences. I still can’t believe it — a Veela! That’s so rare. So, you’ve been talking about cultural stuff, yet the Veela thing upsets her? I don’t understand.”   
  
“Not understanding — the very fabric of my world at the moment,” Hermione groaned, scratching Crookshanks’ fuzzy ear.   
  
“That sounds like a bad Wicked Sisters song,” Lavander quipped, but Parvati ignored her, asking,  
  
“When did this happen?”   
  
“This morning after breakfast.”   
  
“When you ran from the table?” Parvati questioned. “I thought you were escaping Yule ball talk, not chasing down Veela.”  
  
“All I said was I had a question regarding the categorization of Veela and when I asked, she just— just—” Hermione groaned, covering her eyes with her hands. Her frustration was too much for Crookshanks, it seemed. He jumped from her stomach and fled downstairs. While guilty for startling him, Hermione was at least free to sit up. “Everything was going splendidly! We were chatting, and laughing, and holding hands! She was so sweet and thoughtful and got me Francine Roux’s research notes on memory charms!”   
“Francine who?” Parvati asked, but Lavender simply shrugged, too entertained by Hermione’s breakdown.   
  
“And it took seconds — seconds — to ruin! Next thing I knew she was stomping off in those blasted high heels. Fleur Delacour has been an enigmatic thorn in my side since Halloween. She started everything! Including my perfectly foolish decision to enter this forsaken tournament.”   
  
“I thought Ron goaded you into it,” Parvati said, tilting her head. “What’s Fleur got to do with it?”  
  
“Yes, Ron was being childish,” Hermione admitted, “But…he wasn’t exactly,” She paused, trying to think of how to explain. “It was Fleur, she— she’s the one who set me off. One moment she and her friends are laughing at Ron and I, the next she’s calling me a baby and suddenly I have my wand to my head casting experimental magic.” Hermione’s heart twisted at the thought of Madame Roux’s notes still in her bag. The gift had been so thoughtful, so promising. Now it only made Hermione feel sick. How had everything gone so wrong?  
  
“A baby?” Parvati laughed, though the laugh wasn’t very amused. It was more a huff — disbelief paired with benign frustration. “I’ve heard Malfoy call you far worse for years, yet ‘baby’ is the last straw? I don’t know, it’s just so unlike you. I’ve never known you to give into peer pressure.”   
  
“Fleur is,” Hermione began, but hesitated. How to explain Fleur Delacour? How to illustrate how this woman entered her life, occupied her thoughts? How to explain the draw, the thrall, for lack of a better term? “Complicated,” she finished lamely. “Everything seems so complicated with her.”   
  
“She’s a puzzle you haven’t quite put together yet, Granger?” Lavender laughed, “No wonder you fancy her.”   
  
Hermione’s eyes snapped to Lavender, a jolt shooting through her body.  
  
“Fancy?!” Hermione repeated. Her skin tingled at the insinuation, her cheeks flushing, stomach fluttering. “What do you mean — fancy?”  
  
“Parvati might not have noticed you two prancing about,” Lavender continued, unabashed by Hermione’s scandalous tone, “Perhaps too distracted by our other Hogwarts champion-”  
  
“Lav!” Parvati hissed, but Lavender didn’t seem perturbed by her fury, either.  
  
“That Delacour girl has been at your heels the entire week absolutely flirting with you.” If Hermione wasn’t shocked into a stupor before, she certainly was now. Her head was spinning from blood rushing to her face. Her heart raced to keep up with the flow, so loud against her chest, she thought the others must have heard it. Though her blood ran hot, she felt as if a bucket of ice spilled over her shoulders, the cold cascading down her back. Was she breathing? Hermione wasn’t sure if she was breathing.   
  
Lavender didn’t seem perturbed by her panic, rolling her eyes as she picked her nails. “Hermione, you’re the smartest witch in our year, tell me you haven’t noticed how she prowls around you. Absolute wildcat, that one. She preens when given your attention, she touches you any chance she gets, throwing back her head, whipping around her hair, and, let me guess, that’s your scarf around her neck?” Hermione’s expression must have given Lavender all the answers she needed. She was wide-eyed and terrified. Terrified of what? Perhaps terrified that, for the first time, a label had been placed on the strange courtship she and Fleur danced around.   
  
Merlin’s beard — _courtship_?   
  
Hermione wasn’t breathing. She forgot how. How was she supposed to breathe? In and out, or out and in? She felt an entire system failure settle over her body, mind unable to perform basic functions.   
  
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed those little winks she gives you,” Lavender continued, “I mean, come on, Hermione. Surely you’ve noticed! I’ll bet you a chocolate frog I’m right.”   
Hermione didn’t dare speak. Her mind was stalling. Every time she attempted a thought it came to a screeching halt, all momentum utterly derailed by the concept, the very possibility, that Fleur Delacour was interested in her in that way. It was startling, shocking, impossibly so considering Fleur Delacour was— was— she was Fleur Delacour! Beautiful, confident, daring, obnoxious, perplexing Fleur Delacour, and Lavender Brown claimed she was interested in Hermione of all people?! How could she be? How could Hermione possibly measure up to—   
  
“ _You measure up, ma chérie_.”  
  
Fleur had said that, hadn’t she? She had said it just that morning while holding Hermione’s hand, looking over the Black Lake. Her hair had been down, shining in what little sunlight broke through the clouds. Her nails grazed over the skin of Hermione’s hand, leaving tingles and shutters in their wake. Hermione could still smell her perfume. Chanel number five, or something of the like. Fleur had been so jovial, so kind, so attentive, up until that bloody question—   
  
“Oh, no,” Hermione finally said, gasping at the realization. “Oh no, no, no, no!” Her hands shot to her mouth, eyes flying to Lavender and Parvati’s perplexed expressions. “I asked for a word in private, away from her friends, that I had a quick question. She thought— I— that— Oh no!”   
  
“Bloody hell, Granger, spit it out!” Lavender exclaimed, but the words were already flying from Hermione’s lips.   
  
“She thought I was asking her to the ball!” Parvati gasped, reflecting Hermione’s horror. Lavender Brown, however, burst into laughter.   
  
“Of course she was! Anyone with eyes could have spotted it. She’s been laying it on thick all week!” Lavender cackled through her hysteria. “Oh, Hermione, you are fun. Why has it taken this long for us to be friends?”   
  
“Perhaps it was the dung bomb you hid in my wardrobe second year?” Hermione snapped, “Or maybe the rumor you spread that I was half troll? Or perhaps that you’re laughing at a situation in which I’m personally suffering!” Lavender had the decency to cringe, giving Hermione some bit of satisfaction.   
  
“Fair enough,” Lavender muttered, but said no more on the matter. Hermione couldn’t bring herself to care, still reeling. “Why don’t you just ask her to the ball now? Problem solved.”   
  
“That’s not entirely possible,” Hermione sighed. She allowed her body to sag forward, dropping her face into her hands at the thought of Viktor Krum. Sweet, awkward, shy Viktor. What a bloody mess. “I already have a date, if you’ll recall.”   
  
“Oh, this is absolutely wicked!” Lavender Brown laughed, shooting Hermione a grin. “I can’t wait for the Yule Ball.”


	10. The Christmas Gift

_Cutting chills from wet grass pressed into her back, but the icy blades couldn’t compare to the shivers echoing from those fingertips. The woman used with her nails, running them lightly up both legs, over Hermione’s feet, her ankles, her calf muscles, her knees. As those lithe hands met her thighs, the grip became stronger, more present, more persistent. She was pulled down, closer to the other woman, so close her mind could think of nothing but the feel of that cool skin against her burning flesh, those relentless fingers and the sweet scent of lilacs and spring rain. Her lips invaded the sensitive cove of Hermione’s neck, tasting and nipping from shoulder to ear. She felt biting teeth and couldn’t contain a throaty gasp. She should be ashamed of the sounds coming from her mouth, but Hermione couldn’t find room to care, pinned and surrendered to the will of her partner. There was something utterly intoxicating in the submission. Resigning her power felt powerful in and of itself — a release from responsibility, a call to freedom and acceptance of her own desires. There was no yesterday, no tomorrow. There was just that moment, feeling the weight of the woman’s body on top of her, breasts against her chest, the woman’s hips pressing down into her own. The woman rose her lips to Hermione’s, delivering a bruising kiss as one of her hands dipped between their bodies—_

Hermione gasped, eyes flying open as a wave of pleasure rolled over her body. Her hands rushed to cover her mouth, muffling gasps laced with high pitched whimpers. Throwing the duvet from her, the cold air bit into her skin as the sensation faded, pleasure fleeing from her rising panic. Horror struck as she felt a strange, slick wetness between her thighs. Had she just—?!  
  
Her eyes darted around the dormitory. Thankfully, she was the only one awake, the only one who realized what happened. On shaking legs, Hermione dashed to the lavatory. She threw off her clothes and rushed to the bath. Scrunching under the facet, Hermione violently twisted the cold nob as far as it could go, bitting back a scream as freezing water washed over her hot skin. She laid there, afraid to move, afraid to think. She hissed out shocks of pain until her body adjusted to the colder temperature. After fifteen minutes of eternity, Hermione twisted the hot nozzle, allowing the water to warm and fill the tub. She washed every inch of her body, scrubbed as hard as she could, leaving her skin pink and raw. When she finished, Hermione had nothing left to distract her. Her mind spiraled in denial, unable to admit she had just woken wreathing in pleasure from an — an  
  
_Orgasm_.  
  
It had to have been, hadn’t it? Hermione had little experience in such matters, but there was no other plausible explanation, not when her dream began flashing through her mind. The feel of skin on skin, lips dancing on her neck, the pressure of a lithe, soft body pinning her to the ground, grass chilling hot skin, the feel of fingers traveling down her body and between her legs-  
  
“Alright, Hermione?” She jumped with a shriek at Parvati’s voice, causing the other girl to scream as well. “Bloody hell!”  
  
“I’m sorry!” She yelled, ducking as far as she could beneath the water. “I didn’t expect anyone to be awake.”  
  
“I wasn’t,” Parvati admitted, turning her back to give Hermione a bit of privacy. “Not until I heard you run passed. I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”  
  
“Yeah,” She said, trying to ignore the slight throb resonating between her legs. Damn those bloody dreams. “Yeah, I’m okay. Sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you.”  
  
“S’alright,” Parvati said with a yawn. “You’re sure you’re fine? You seem really…flustered.”  
  
“Yes,” Hermione responded, but regretted it instantly. It was too snappish, too abrupt. It was strange, having a conversation as she bathed. A bit unnerving, as well, considering how vulnerable she felt after her dream. “No— I don’t really know. I’m not— that is, I’m a bit on edge, I suppose.”  
  
“Was it that creature again? In your nightmares?” Parvati asked. She didn’t seem as deterred by the setting as Hermione. Of course, Parvati was still in her pajamas. Hastily, Hermione made sure to add some bubbles, providing what little coverage it could. “Or…was it the other dream?” Hermione curled up into the tightest ball she could, resting her forehead on her knees.  
  
“Other.”  
  
“Ah,” was all Parvati said at first, perhaps waiting for Hermione to take the lead.  
  
“I’m so tired of these dreams. Most nights it’s one or the other, and I can’t decide which causes less stress. Panic attacks or— or—” Hermione bit back the word, unprepared to say it aloud just yet. Baby steps, right? “I just don’t want to worry about it today. It’s Christmas! I want to open my presents, enjoy a nice breakfast, spend time with my friends and go to the ball before midnight strikes and I turn back into a frumpy pumpkin.” Parvati laughed, causing Hermione to smile. Parvati was a half-blood, Hermione discovered and had been exposed to muggle fairy tales as well as wizard folklore. It was nice to have someone who understood her and Harry’s muggle references, as Ron often was baffled and frustrated by the cultural exclusion.  
  
“Well, Lav and I will make sure you look like a princess for the ball,” Parvati declared. “And afterward, if you’d like, we can talk about your nightmares…and maybe Fleur Delacour?”  
  
Hermione groaned at the mention of the Veela. She hadn’t seen Fleur since their spat. The Veela was avoiding her. To be fair, Hermione hadn’t exerted herself, either. She was too confused, too flustered, and too rattled.  
  
“I don’t even know what I’d say about Fleur,” Hermione admitted. “I don’t know what to make of any of it.”  
  
“Do you think Lav’s right?” Parvati pushed on, a hint of excitement in her voice. “About Fleur fancying you?”  
  
“No,” Hermione said, but the answer didn’t feel quite right. “Yes. Maybe?” She groaned again, gripping her wet hair in frustration. “This is exactly what I mean! I don’t know anything! Everything Lavender said was true, Fleur behaves rather friendly towards me, but that doesn’t necessarily mean she fancies me. The French are far more affectionate than we are.”  
  
“What about her other friends?” Parvati asked giddily, leaning against the wall, still facing away from Hermione. “Does she treat them friendly.” Parvati’s suggestive tone did nothing for Hermione’s nerves.  
  
“Not that I’ve noticed,” she admitted, “She’s usually accompanied by Adelaide and Edric, but those two are so absorbed in each other a dung bomb could go off and they would hardly notice. They’d either be too busy snogging or yelling — there’s really no in between. It’s just so difficult to tell with Fleur. She so emotive you’d think there would be a pattern, yet she never reacts how I expect.” Parvati hummed pensively before responding.  
  
“I can see why you might be wary. The one thing I haven’t heard is what you want.”  
  
“How do you mean?” Hermione huffed, “What does it matter?”  
  
“It’s everything, isn’t it?” Parvati shot back. “You’re so stuck on if Fleur fancies you, you haven’t bothered asking if you fancy her. Or do you prefer Viktor? Or Ron? Or Harry? Or me? Or Lav? Or even Professor McGonagall?!” Parvati gave an exasperated laugh, throwing her hands in the air. “Honestly, you think Fleur Delacour is frustrating? Hermione, the one factor you haven’t added into your little equation is what you want and, in the end, that’s the most important thing. If you don’t fancy Fleur, that’s alright. If you do, though, maybe it’s worth the risk asking if she feels the same.”  
  
“Maybe,” Hermione relented, if only to end the conversation. “Thank you, Parvati. I think I’ll just soak for a while longer, though. I’ll be out in a bit.”  
  
“Okay,” Parvati relented, “Just don’t use thinking to avoid doing something.” She gave a quick wave before leaving Hermione to brood in her bath.  
  
Hermione emerged an hour later calm and composed, if not a little pruney. Lavender and Parvati were awake and sitting on her bed, opening their Christmas gifts and insisted she do the same. She had no idea when her bed had been colonized as the new gossip corner but found the intrusion a welcome distraction as she unwrapped her presents. Harry had given her Disarmingly Charming, a book on Charms and their uses in dueling (a book that Hermione insisted was far too expensive,) Ron gave her a set of her favorite sweets (hopefully he hadn’t kept them near the stash of dungbombs he bought Harry for Christmas,) and Parvati bought her a book on astrology. Her parents’ Christmas gift was supposed to be her dress, but it appeared they chose that agreement, sending Hermione what they called a “muggle care package.” Inside was a muggle chess set, a set of pens, and annotated copies of her favorite Shakespearian plays. Parvati was instantly drawn to the pens whereas Lavender began reading _Twelfth Night_.  
  
“If music be the food of love, play on,/ Give me excess of it; that surfeiting,/ The appetite may sicken, and so die.” Lavender giggled, plopping another Berty Botts Every Flavored Bean into her mouth. “What in bloody hell is this? I thought you said it’s a romance, Granger. He’s talking about dying!”  
  
“It is,” Hermione rolled her eyes. “It’s a comedic play about a young woman, Viola, who is shipwrecked in a foreign duchy. She dresses as a man and comes to work for Duke Orsino, who says that line. Music, in this quote, is called “the food of love,” because it feeds Orsino’s love and longing for a countess who doesn’t return his affections. He hopes that by listening to sad music he will overindulge himself in longing and grow sick of it, and thus sick of his love for the countess.”  
  
“Well, why doesn’t he just say that?” Lavender rolls her eyes.  
  
“He does, just in iambic pentameter.” Hermione almost laughed at the exasperation on Lavender’s face, who dropped the book back onto Hermione’s bed.  
  
“Must muggles make everything so complicated?”  
  
“I think you’d like it if you gave an honest go of it, but it is a bit easier to understand if performed,” Hermione said, putting the book on her bookshelf. She invited each of them to take a pen before journeying to the Great Hall for breakfast. She joined Harry and Ron while Parvati and Lavender joined Seamus and Dean further down the table. She thanked the boys for their gifts. After properly chiding Harry about the cost of his present, Hermione’s eyes drifted to the Ravenclaw table. Fleur Delacour was nowhere to be found.  
  
The simple presence Fleur manifested in her thoughts was maddening. Even when absent, Fleur was there. All at once, Hermione was wounded and furious, spiteful, yet curious. Thoughts of the Veela were never far, yet brought a morose longing she was quickly growing to resent. She had finally gotten her footing with Fleur, finally began unraveling the intricate tapestry of Fleur’s thoughts, emotions, behaviors, hoping to understand and perhaps solve the question that plagued her most. Why did she care so much about Fleur Delacour?  
  
“ _No wonder you fancy her._ ”  
  
Was that it? Was Lavender Brown right? Were her feelings for Fleur moderately less platonic than she initially thought? Dare she say romantic? True, Fleur often provoked reactions that bordered on manic for the usually level-headed bookworm, her lapse of judgment on Halloween being the greatest example to date, but far from the last. Fleur invoked unbridled emotion more often than not, and often reveled in Hermione’s bursts of passion. Logic seemed irrelevant in Fleur’s presence, and what was love if not the lack of logic—  
  
Love?  
  
Surely not that! No, Hermione was certain the notion of love was far too soon to even be thought, let alone uttered or thought! But if she was thinking in terms of ‘too soon’ and what was and wasn’t love…Perhaps there was truth in Lavender Brown's assessment. It was true, Hermione found Fleur’s enigmatic nature captivating. As Fleur infiltrated her life, Hermione noticed the small things, as well. Such as how Fleur began wearing her hair down, allowing it to frame her face and drape along her shoulders; how the Veela’s ears perked up when amused, always followed by a bright, mischievous smile; how her nose scrunched disapprovingly at anything English; how the sashay of her hips sent that powder blue skirt swaying—  
  
Hermione’s mind paused at the image, perhaps finding her answer in a far less modest way than she would have liked. Yes, Hermione was most definitely attracted to Fleur Delacour, but what of it now? Now that Fleur was most adamantly avoiding Hermione, she had little opportunity to clear the air. The next issue came of what to do with this new revelation? She wasn’t about to profess undying love—  
  
There that word was again, Merlin’s beard!  
  
She wasn’t about to profess interest to Fleur. The thought was more terrifying than another row with a dragon. What if Fleur didn’t feel the same? What if Lavender was wrong? Or worse — what if she was right?! What in bloody hell was Hermione to do with that?! She knew the love stories, knew the stereotype of finding true love and living happily ever after, but those stories told little of hurt, emotional turmoil, or fear of vulnerability. There was no guarantee of reciprocation, nor that any sort of mutual feelings would last. Was she even ready for any sort of relationship, emotional or physical?  
  
Hermione tried not to think of her little sexual awakening that morning, pushing the memory to the furthest reaches of her mind. There was also the objectively obvious issue of nationality and the fact that Fleur would be returning to France at the end of the year. What then, if they began a relationship? Distance may make the heart grow fonder, but surely that was distance enough to make that fondness disappear altogether.  
  
Hermione groaned, stabbing her eggs and fidgeting with her bacon. This was what she did, wasn’t it? Fret and bemoan the future without a lick of reason for it in the present? What was it Parvati said?  
  
“ _Just don’t use thinking to avoid doing something_.”  
  
That was comfortable, though. Hermione was used to living in her thoughts. Reacting to external threats was one thing. Dragons, werewolves, dementors, death eaters — they were the ones taking action. In her thoughts, safely tucked away in her mind, Hermione could govern herself. It was comfortable being alone in her head. Even so, something didn’t sit right with the thought, her stomach squirming, heart tightening. Keeping her emotions, her personal thoughts to herself was comfortable; yet, what of happiness? What of excitement and novelty? What of the exhilarated feeling of seeing Fleur Delacour smile?  
  
As her thoughts drifted to the Veela, another Veela rushed the Gryffindor table, this one accompanied by Edric Hughes.  
  
“‘Appy Christmas!” Gabrielle exclaimed, jumping into Hermione’s lap. Hermione let out a surprised groan, grabbing the girl to stabilize her. Gabrielle was a bit too big to sit in anyone’s lap, but try telling that to the little Veela. “ _What presents did you get? Mother gave me sweets and new shoes! Look! They are so shiny!_ ”  
  
“Watcher, Hermione!” Edric laughed, flashing his pretty smile as Gabrielle clapped her new shoes together. “The bludger’s loose!” He scooted between her and Ron, who looked ready to swing at the Beauxbaton boy.  
  
“Is this who you’re going with?!” He exclaimed with a mouth full of food. “This pretty git?!”  
  
“This pretty git will hex your red hair into tentacles quicker than you can swallow,” Edric responded. Ron shut his mouth, but silently seethed as he chewed. “And no, I think my girlfriend would strongly protest, though I wouldn’t mind a break from her. She’s been complaining all morning. Let me tell you, mate, the pretty ones are work.” He leaned over to Harry and Ron, whispering loudly, “We’re taking five hours to get ready for the ball. FIVE! And I have to be there for three of them. Want to know why?” Both boys, despite their confusion, leaned in closer. “She’s doing my hair.”  
  
“What?” Harry said, baffled. “I thought…I thought you said-”  
  
“Oh, well, of course, that’s why she’s complaining. She doesn’t think hair should take three hours but if she wants pretty than she has to work for it.” He shot them a wink, encouraged by Gabrielle’s giggles. “But my point still stands. Speaking of the pretty ones,” Edric turned to Hermione, giving her a sympathetic wince, “I know a pretty bird who has ruffled feathers over you.”  
  
“Fleur ‘as been so angry!” Gabrielle exclaimed. Of course, the first time Gabrielle bothers to speak English is the most inopportune moment. Harry and Ron exchange confused looks, their interest in the conversation peaking. “What did you do?”  
  
“It’s what she didn’t do, love!” Edric laughed. “Fleur’s absolutely rioting!”  
  
“That’s not exactly my fault!” Hermione snapped. “If Fleur wanted to— to—” She couldn’t bring herself to say it, not in front of Harry and Ron. “Well, she should have been more direct, is all.” Edric gasped, clapping his hands to his cheeks.  
  
“Merlin’s beard, you finally got it?!” He exclaimed, “Adelaide owes me five galleons! She said you’d never catch on. Ha! Shows her to underestimate the English — though, it did take you quite a while!”  
  
“What did?” Ron interrupted, suspicious eyes darting from Edric to Hermione. “What’s he talking about?”  
  
“It’s nothing, Ron,” Hermione rolled her eyes, heart thrumming in her chest. That was it, wasn’t it? She had been operating on suspicions and Lavender Brown's scandalous theories, but Edric confirmed it. Or had he? He didn’t say it, not explicitly. He assumed she knew something, that was all she could say for certain. Ron wasn’t satisfied with her answer and turned to Edric, but before he could ask the Beauxbatons boy held up his hands in surrender.  
  
“Oh, I’m not saying!” Edric laughed, “I’ve seen this one handle a dragon. Lesson two, boys, pick your battles! Besides, I’m just the delivery boy.” He withdrew a small, thin box from his blazer, “Here you are,” he said, placing the parcel it in front of Hermione. Before she could ask, Edric took Gabrielle’s hand and led her towards the Ravenclaw table with a quick, “Happy Christmas!” to Hermione.  
  
“What the bloody hell was that?” Ron asked, nose scrunched in confusion. Hermione snatched up the present before Ron could, tucking it into her robes.  
  
Ron hassled her over the exchange through the snowball fight until she bade them farewell around five, needing to allow the Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion time to tame her unmanageable curls. She made it to the dormitory, where Parvati and Lavender hastily shoved her into a chair in front of the vanity. Parvati applied the potion to every inch of Hermione’s hair while Lavender did her make-up with minimal sarcastic commentary. Once they finished, Hermione withdrew the box beneath her bed and laid out her dress. It was a beautiful periwinkle-blue, the material floaty and light. She smiled, running fingers over the smooth silk. Nestled in the fabric was the rose corsage Viktor had given her, red glaring in a sea of periwinkle.  
  
Hermione took up the corsage and opened the box. The fragrance of the roses was a bit harsh for her liking, but it did smell pleasant. She set it on her vanity before unfurling her dress, ducking behind a partition.  
  
Hermione was determined to make this a wonderful night. After so much trouble and tribulation, she had the opportunity to salvage her chaotic life, if only for one night. Tonight was for enjoyment, laughter, fun and youthful adventure. In that moment, she recalled Professor McGonagall’s story of her summer in the highlands, a time where even Minerva McGonagall could be foolish, reveling in folly and love. Hermione wanted that. Tonight she could just let herself be a young girl — not the brightest witch of her age, not the Hogwarts champion, not Harry Potter’s friend. She didn’t have to think about her dreams, she didn’t have to ponder the egg hidden beneath her bed, she didn’t have to fret over Fleur Delacour. For one night, she wanted to escape her worries and live. To act, not think.  
  
As Hermione threw off her robe to change into her dress, she was startled when something dropped to the floor. Leaning over, she found the Christmas gift Edric gave her at breakfast. It was packaged in silver wrapping, topped with a blue ribbon. Hesitantly, she peeled away the wrapping, finding a satin black box. Her eyebrows furrowed. It looked like a jewelry box. As she opened the lid, Hermione let out a gasp.  
  
Silver shone in the candlelight. A thin, silver chain with a pendant rested on a red satin cushion, accompanied by a pair of small earrings. Hermione had only seen diamonds a few times in her life — a pair of earrings her mother saved for special occasions — but the cut and material were undeniable. They were diamonds earrings. At the end of the silver chain necklace was a blueish green feather with a thin, silver pendent acting as a backplate. Hermione had never seen it’s like.  
  
“Hermione?” Parvati called, “Are you okay?”  
  
“Yes, I’m fine.” Hermione’s fingers gravitated towards the necklace. A careful brush of her fingertip found the feather soft and airy, contrasting the hard, cold surface of the silver pendant. Why in Merlin’s name had Edric given her this? She couldn’t imagine it’s value. The jewelry was thin and elegant and far too regal for Hermione. Why had Edric— No. Not Edric. He admitted to just being the delivery boy.  
  
Could the gift have been from Fleur?  
  
No, that was preposterous. Her heart skipped a beat at the possibility but fought against it all the same. It was absolutely insane to think Fleur Delacour would give her expensive jewelry, especially a set as distinctive. Firstly, Fleur was seventeen — how could she afford such a gift? Secondly, even if Fleur fancied her as Lavender claimed and Edric insinuated, expressing that affection through such an expensive gift was ludicrous. But there was no other explanation, none that Hermione could think of. Tears stung her eyes, threatening the make-up Lavender worked so hard on. Her eyes drifted to her dress and couldn’t help but notice how well it matched — the sliver adding a shining accent to the periwinkle, the greenish-blue feather providing a fetching splash of color.  
  
With a disbelieving shake of her head, Hermione sat the box aside and went to put on her dress. She felt a bit self-conscious. The dress was tailored and fitted, framing her curves much closer than her usual frumpy jumpers. Hermione wasn’t used to revealing so much skin. The skirt almost touched the ground, but the top portion just barely covered her chest. In an embarrassing revelation, Hermione realized her bust had grown since the fitting. There was a bit of frilly fabric over her shoulders, but it held little sway over the dress’ security. She bounced about a bit behind the partition, ensuring nothing could…be misplaced.  
  
“Hermione! I’m sorry to dash, but I have to meet Harry. I’ll see you at the ball!” Parvati gave a squeal and was quickly joined by a giggling Lavender Brown. Hermione couldn’t help but smile, listening to their excitement. For once she could enjoy their giggles and found herself giggling along as her dormmates hopped from the room. Once they were gone, once the coast was clear, Hermione emerged from behind the partition and stood before the vanity.  
  
Tears returned to her eyes. She couldn’t remember the last time she saw herself in the mirror and felt pleased. Her hair styled and straightened, blemishes hidden, eyes highlighted by mascara, she had never looked better. Instead of clothes that hid her body, she wore something accentuating her femininity. Hermione feared she might loathe such a thing, but she reveled in the confidence it brought. She didn’t just feel pretty, she felt beautiful.  
  
Hermione turned to grab her cloak but paused, seeing the open jewelry box, silver shining in the lamplight. She decided to try them on — just to see how they looked, of course. She couldn’t possibly wear them, not with Fleur being so wroth, not with their relationship in such turbulent waters. But as the cold silver touched her skin, as soon as she the vain of the feather brushed her clavicle, she couldn’t imagine being without it. The earrings shone so nicely, and she had so little opportunity to wear earrings. With her hair, it was a miracle her face was visible, let alone her ears. The necklace’s weight felt comforting over her chest, warming to the temperature of her skin.  
  
Just for tonight, she decided, she would be young and impulsive. Just for tonight, she could be Cinderella until midnight transfigured her into a frumpy pumpkin. She would forget her woes, forgo her thoughts, and abandon discretion. Just for tonight, Hermione Granger would live.


	11. Miss Granger lives for a Night

Fairy light floating high above the gardens gave way to candlelight as the large, oak doors opened and the delegation from Durmstrang eagerly rushed the Entrance hall. Hermione was first through the doors, escorted by Viktor Krum. Viktor was so kind, showering her with compliments, acting in all the ways a gentleman should. He was the perfect prince charming that evening. It made her feel guilty, having forgotten his rose corsage. Even with her heels, Viktor stood two heads taller than Hermione. Though unquestionably tall, he seemed to stand straighter in his red dressrobes, arm gallantly outstretched for her use. She clutched tighter around it upon seeing the sea of Hogwarts students in the Entrance hall, all anxiously waiting for the ball to start at eight. Hermione’s heart thrashed in her chest. Did she look alright? How ridiculous did she look in her dress? She feared her dress may fall open, or her heel may break. She might trip over her skirts, or her hair could frizz at the first sign of humidity.  
  
She saw Harry standing stiffly next to Parvati just in front of the doors. He looked rather dashing in his emerald dressrobes, though they clashed fiercely with Parvati’s bright pink robes. She had splashes of seafoam and milder greens in her outfit to try and bridge the distance, but it was a hard bridge to build. She waved to them if only to distract from her anxiety. Harry’s eyes darted to her but quickly looked away, scanning the hall. Beside him, Parvati gave her a sly wink. Next to the pair, Ron shifted from foot to foot in an unfortunate set of dressrobes that had clearly seen better days. Padma Patil looked equally underwhelmed. She hoped to catch Ron’s eye, perhaps point to Viktor, give him something to look forward to later in the evening, but he didn’t see her. No one seemed to see her but Parvati. Professor McGonagall suddenly appeared, dressed in robes of red tartan, a decorative wreath of thistles around the brim of her pointy hat. She called out,  
  
“Champions over here, please!”  
  
Viktor flashed Hermione a sweet, lopsided smile and escorted her towards the others. Hermione nearly tripped over her dress upon seeing Fleur Delacour.  
  
She was draped over the arm of Roger Davis, the Ravenclaw Quidditch captain. Silver satin hung from her frame, flowing over every curve. Her necklace and earrings accented the shade, sapphires shining in the candlelight. Her crystal blue eyes seemed to sense Hermione’s gaze. For a moment Hermione thought to look away, but she already decided to throw caution to the wind that night. She wasn’t a scared little girl, she was young and vibrant, and felt as beautiful as any Veela.  
  
For the first time, she could read Fleur Delacour like a book. The second their eyes crossed, Hermione recognized the conflict rising in Fleur’s stare. Anger, frustration, melancholy, and spite danced across Fleur’s features, eyes darting from Hermione to Viktor. The Veela turned away at once. Losing Fleur’s gaze was a knife in Hermione’s heart if only because the narrative she saw in Fleur’s eyes felt far too familiar.  
  
Professor McGonagall lined them up for the big entrance and Harry finally caught sight of her. She pulled herself together and gave him a quick ‘hello’ as the doors to the Great Hall opened and the Champions and their guests were met with roaring applause. Silver shone on the walls as glittering frost. Garlands, mistletoe, and ivy hung from the ceiling, reflecting a cloudless, starry night. The four house tables were gone, replaced with a hundred smaller ones lit by lantern light. As the champions were led to the dais, Viktor’s fan club looked none too pleased with her. That didn’t surprise her. It was Ron that startled her, giving her the strangest look as she passed him with Viktor — but she only caught a flash of it before reaching the dais. Five chairs were reserved for the judges (and Percy, she noticed, stood in for Mr. Crouch) and eight saved for the champions and their dates. Since two of the champions arrived together, Dumbledore kindly eliminated the extra set.  
  
Dinner passed pleasantly enough. Hermione spent the time speaking with Viktor and ignoring Karkaroff’s eerie glower. She was surprised to see how well he spoke, the only exception being her name. Eventually, she settled on “Herm-own-ninny.” Close enough. Whatever bashfulness he felt had long since faded. He eagerly spoke of anything and everything to keep her attention: Durmstrang, the Bulgarian Quidditch team, the small village he grew up in. Hermione found this excitable Viktor appealing. He was far more energetic and positive than she originally gave him credit for. Perhaps the stress of representing his school and public expectations was to blame for his pessimistic facade. For tonight Viktor, like herself, chose to leave the cares and worries of the world for tomorrow.  
  
Down the table, she heard Fleur Delacour complaining about anything and everything. She cringed every time the bells of Fleur’s voice chimed in her ear, distracting her from Viktor’s pleasant company. What’s more, Fleur kept meeting her gaze whenever the opportunity presented itself before turning back to Roger Davis.  
  
With the food and conversation thoroughly enjoyed, Dumbledore stood and asked the students to do the same. A wave of his wand sent the tables zooming back along the walls, leaving the center of the hall open for dancing. He conjured a platform for the band and the Weird Sisters emerged to an eager crowd. As they tuned their instruments, the champions and their partners were cued to take their places. She heard Parvati hiss something to Harry, who looked mortified. Poor boy. Viktor simply smiled as she took his arm. She allowed him to lead her to the dance floor and place a tentative hand at her waist. She took his hand with a smile, resting her other hand on his shoulder. She was surprised to see that, compared to his usual lumbering gate, Viktor’s dancing was smooth and rehearsed. He led her in a proper waltz, and they laughed together as he led her in sillier and sillier. A twirl, a kick, even going down on one knee so that she could spin about him, their dance was light-hearted and fun.  
  
Soon others joined the champions. Dumbledore and Madame Maxime waltzed nearby, Neville stepped painfully on Ginny’s feet, and Mad-Eye Moody led Professor Sinistra in a very awkward two-step. She barely caught sight of Harry fleeing the floor with Parvati, darting into the crowd as the final note of the first song rang silent. Applause filled the hall. She beamed at Viktor, barely getting out her compliments over the cheers as the Wicked Sisters began their next song.  
  
They danced sporadically after the first song, not necessarily keeping the pretenses of any particular dance, simply enjoying the tempo of the fast music. Afterward, Viktor offered to grab some refreshments. She nodded eagerly, trying to catch her breath. She saw Harry’s shaggy black hair through the crowd and thought to join him, but paused when a flash of silver caught her eye. Fleur Delacour just ended her dance with Roger Davis, pushing the boy away. It was obvious he wanted to cling a bit longer. Hermione clenched her jaw, seeing him try and grab Fleur’s arm. Before she could think, before she could analyze, or plot, or reason, Hermione marched forward as the third song rang through the hall. Davis tried grabbing Fleur again. Hermione beat him to it.  
  
“Cutting in,” was all she provided as she took Fleur’s hand and led her to the center of the dance floor. She could barely hear Davis’ indignant huff over the blood drumming in her ears, heart thrashing in her chest as she looked to Fleur. The first thing she noticed was the height change. In heels, Hermione stood almost eye level with Fleur. It was a strange new perspective, looking straight into those blue eyes. Despite the heels, Fleur still had the advantage. The blonde said nothing but didn’t resist, either. Was this silence to punish her? Frustrate her? Well, it was working. Hermione gritted her teeth but laced her fingers through Fleur’s and tightened her hold. Whatever the Veela was going to do, Hermione would withstand and hold strong. She only faltered when it came to the dance, unsure of where to put her hands.  
  
“Do you know how to, um,” Hermione began but sputtered when Fleur stepped forward, taking her waist. Fleur captured her hand in her own and Hermione almost tripped over her own feet as the Frenchwoman began to lead her in a dance. With a shock, she realized Fleur was pushing her into a foxtrot, so she took two slow steps back and two quick ones together. Out of habit, she allowed herself to be led.  
  
“Very good, mademoiselle Granger,” Fleur said stiffly, leading them into a fast twirl. Hermione kept her feet and proper tempo. “You know ‘ow to dance.”  
“Summer lessons with my parents,” Hermione answered the silent question, encouraged by the breach of silence. She pushed off on the balls of her feet as Fleur led her backward. “Every summer and winter holiday my family does something together — an activity or trip — so we can reconnect since so much of my life is spent in a world they can’t understand.”  
  
“Admirable,” Fleur muttered, sending Hermione into a spin. “Wiz your quick feet I am surprised Krum let you go. I certainly would not ‘ave.”  
  
“He went to fetch drinks,” she huffed.  
  
“And you went to fetch me?” Fleur laughed coldly. “‘E must not be entertaining you properly.”  
  
“He’s quite the gentlemen, actually,” Hermione bit back. “There’s no reason to be mean.” She tried pulling away, quickly growing tired of the Veela’s spite, but Fleur spun her once more and caught her hips to hold her. She blushed, feeling Fleur’s front brush her backside, but didn’t resist her firm hold.  
  
“No, no, no.” Fleur smirked. Warm breath tickled her ear, and she could have sworn she felt soft lips brushing her skin. “You came to me, yes? You owe me at least zis dance now.”  
  
“I do, do I?” Hermione bit back as she was twirled around, facing Fleur once more. The Veela looked smug as she continued the Foxtrot.  
  
“Oui. Unless you cannot keep up,” Fleur challenged, raising that thin eyebrow. With an indignant huff, Hermione brought her hand back to Fleur’s shoulder, determined to follow her lead. They danced for the rest of the song in silent conflict, challenging and trying the other’s skills. Hermione was grateful she didn’t trip or stumble with how fervent Fleur danced. She couldn’t help but be drawn into it. Viktor was a fair dancer but was nothing compared to Fleur’s glide. Her feet might have never touched the ground, spinning, and twirling and bringing their bodies close. For a moment she recalled a paragraph on Veelas and dancing, somewhere in The Fantastic Encyclopedia of Faeries, on how Veela danced their partners to death.  
  
At that moment she didn’t care. Not with Fleur’s crystal blue eyes shining down at her, challenging her, pushing her, enthralling her. She missed those eyes. It was a wild thought, one Hermione had to shake from her head. While she stared into Fleur’s eyes, the Veela stared just below and paused their frantic dance.  
  
“‘Ow did you get zis?” Fleur asked, and Hermione could feel the rising tension in the blonde’s body. “Ze necklace?”  
  
“It’s yours?” Hermione asked, hoping to confirm, to finally have a direct answer. “The gift was from you?”  
  
“Gift?” Fleur repeated but quickly drew Hermione into her once more as another couple almost danced right into them. “I gave no gift, certainly not zat.”  
  
“I—” Hermione’s heart plummeted into her stomach. Her head spun trying to reason and make sense of the situation. “I don’t understand, Edric said it was a Christmas gift, he and Gabrielle—”  
  
“Gabrielle,” Fleur all but growled, “Not this nonsense again! I did not give zis, she took it from my zings to give to you.”  
  
“I see,” Hermione responded, biting back tears. She wouldn’t give Fleur the satisfaction, not tonight. Taking a deep breath, Hermione unclasped the necklace and forced it into Fleur’s hand. “Well, I hope she was amused.” She spat before escaping into the crowd. She felt Fleur’s hand trying to grab her, just barely heard Fleur call for her over the music, but she pressed on, weaving her way between dancers and bystanders. She thought of finding Viktor, thought of finding Harry, or Ron, or Parvati, but there was too much noise, too many people. Hermione felt hollow and naked, fingers reaching for her chest, mourning the necklace’s absence.  
  
Curious eyes followed her as she fled the Great Hall, but she didn’t care. The front doors stood open and she rushed out into the night, her way illuminated by fairy lights. She found herself in the garden, only stopping to collapse on a stone bench. To her utter embarrassment, tears slid down her cheeks. Why had she listened to Lavender Brown? A part of her knew it was folly, knew the idea of Fleur Delacour being interested in her was mad. She hadn’t listened to that part, though, had she? She listened to hope, clinging to sweet promises that were nothing but a fantasy.  
  
“Mademoiselle?” She froze at the voice, screwing her eyes shut. She heard the scrape of heels, the flutter of robes and a soft touch on her arm. “Zere you ‘re!”  
  
“No,” she said, jumping to her feet, gaining control of her sobs. “No, no, no, you are the last thing I need right now, Fleur Delacour!”  
  
“Please, come back inside wiz me. It is too cold ‘ere. I did not explain properly—”  
  
“Don’t you see the last thing I need is you making me feel more like rubbish!”  
  
“I did not mean to—”  
  
“Didn’t mean to?!” Hermione screamed back, riling up for a fight. “It’s all you ever do! You mock me, you degrade me, you confuse the ever-loving hell out of me! And for a second — a single second — I thought we could move past that, that we could be civil and actually have a pleasant relationship, but that’s impossible with you, isn’t it? I was so happy getting to know you, Fleur! You were so kind, and thoughtful, and so, so smart! I loved our conversations, I loved spending time with you, I loved the way you held my hand, clung to my arm — in the next second it’s all gone! I allowed myself to invest in our friendship and I’m left crying, which is ridiculous, isn’t it?! We’ve barely known each other a few months, most of it spent in passive-aggressive snideness and misunderstandings, but I let myself get lost you. I lost myself in you, and…This night was supposed to be perfect.” Hermione sobbed. She tried to hide it, hand reaching for her mouth, but Fleur was suddenly there. Hermione scrunched her eyes close, but felt Fleur’s hands on her cheek, thumbs brushing away the tears. Soft hushes mingled with her sobs as Fleur drew her in, wrapping her arms around her.  
  
“It will be alright,” Fleur whispered into her ear, giving another soft hush. “Just cry.”  
  
“I—” Hermione choked out, “I don’t want to—”  
  
“It is alright to cry,” Fleur insisted. “You need zis.” Hermione felt her body deflate at the words, surrendering to Fleur’s embrace.  
  
“I’m just so tired of crying,” Hermione sobbed, burrowing into Fleur’s shoulder, clutching the fine silk of Fleur’s dress. “I’m just tired…”  
  
“I know,” Fleur whispered, “It will be alright.”  
  
“And Madame Roux’s notes were really insightful,” Hermione couldn’t seem to help herself and kept babbling. “It was really thoughtful.” Fleur simply chuckled, pulling Hermione closer.  
  
“I am pleased you liked zem.”  
  
“I didn’t mean to upset you.”  
  
“No, no, no, it is my turn to apologize.”  
  
“I’ll take the next one, shall I?” Hermione quipped, and nothing sounded quite so good at that moment as Fleur’s laugh. The Veela’s laugh chimed in her ears, and she couldn’t muffle one of her own. It was a bit insane, going from crying in Fleur Delacour’s arms to laughing, but Hermione was tired of question her emotions and laughing felt drastically better than crying. “You rattle me, Fleur Delacour. You rattle me to the core, and I’m terrified.”  
  
“You ‘re not alone. I once told you, ‘Ermione,” Fleur whispered into Hermione’s hair, raising her hand, mingling long fingers in her curls. “When I found somezing to enjoy, you would be ze first to know.”  
  
“Yes, well,” Hermione laughed, though her nerves caught it halfway out, the pitch higher than she intended. But how could she stay calm, feeling Fleur so close, those long fingers scratching the base of her scalp? “I did hear you complaining to your date, Fleur. You complained about everything — what else is there to like?”  
  
“You.”  
  
Hermione’s heart stilled. Her eyes stared into Fleur’s and all she could see was crystal blue. For a moment she thought she misheard. Before she could respond, Professor Snape’s voice echoed across the grounds, scolding rambunctious students about inappropriate behavior. Cursing her luck, Hermione pulled Fleur behind a nearby bush just as Snape’s swept into view.  
  
“Mon Deiu,” Fleur laughed quietly, that smirk finding her lips once more, “‘E ‘as not, ‘ow you say, ‘ad fun for quite some time, no?” Hermione shushed her, heart pounding against her ribs as Snape passed them on the walkway. Fleur took the opportunity to move closer, pushing her further into the buses. As she watched Snape turn the corner, Hermione suddenly felt something cold against her sternum. Fleur’s hands wound behind her, clasping the feather necklace back around her neck, fingers tracing the silver chain down to the pendant. Hermione couldn’t contain the shiver creeping down her back, ever nerve electrified by a single touch.  
  
“I am sorry, ‘Ermione,” Fleur whispered, “I should not ‘ave been upset wiz you. You did nozing. I was…emotional. I did not wish to say anyzing cruel, so I left.”  
  
“You thought I was going to ask you to the ball,” Hermione stated. Fleur stiffened, but she pressed on. “You were flirting with me all week, trying to get me to ask you.”  
  
“You knew?”  
  
“No! No, I didn’t, I only figured it out when Lavender told me.”  
  
“What is a Lavender?” Fleur scrunched her nose.  
  
“Lavender is my classmate,” Hermione chuckled. “No, I didn’t know. If I had…Well, I can’t honestly say what I might have done.”  
  
“Zat does not matter,” Fleur said. “You ‘are ‘ere, so am I.” Fleur’s hands returned to her hair, bringing her forehead to rest against Hermione’s. “Ze first time I was zis close to you, you nearly scared me to deaz.”  
  
“Oh, really,” Hermione managed to respond, though she wasn’t sure how. She certainly wasn’t breathing, not with Fleur petite nose brushing against hers. She had to remind herself to inhale and exhale. Fleur hummed an affirmative.  
  
“‘Alloween, remember? You reacted so cutely, I could not ‘elp but tease you. I wanted your eyes on me and not your red ‘aired friend. Zat is why I said you were a _bebe_. ‘Ad I knew you would do what you did…It was not my intention.”  
  
“Wait,” Hermione drew back, eyebrows furrowing, thinking back to the beginning of the year. “Bloody hell, you’ve been flirting with me since we had our wands weighed!” Fleur chuckled, ears perking in amusement.  
  
“Now she knows! I zought it was a crush, nozing more, but I wanted to know more and more of you. What you zink, what you feel, I want to speak wiz you, tease you, kiss you.” Fleur paused. She watched Hermione, eyes scanning for any reaction. The younger witch felt hot to the touch, only made hotter when Fleur’s hand caressed her waist. Still, the Veela waited. “What do you want, ‘Ermione?” She finally asked, but Hermione already moved a hand to Fleur’s neck.  
  
She brought their lips together in a kiss. She heard the Veela inhale sharply, the hand at her hair tightening its grip. The kiss went as quickly as it came, and Hermione felt gob-smacked. She had no idea where that came from. No idea what possessed her. For once her mind was blissfully blank, able to simply enjoy the feel of Fleur’s soft kiss, enjoy the wave of excitement and relaxation that echoed through her.  
  
Fleur claimed the second kiss, tugging Hermione close. Her own arms wrapping around the Veela’s neck for stability, unhinged by the fire rolled in her stomach, ignited by the feel of Fleur’s body against her. An embarrassing whimper escaped her as Fleur’s tongue entered her mouth, brushing her own languidly, slow and sensual. With every kiss, they fell deeper and deeper into each other. Hermione felt her bun loosen, Fleur’s hand invading her tresses once more, gripping her desperately. One of her own hands clung to Fleur’s neck, the other finding the bare skin of Fleur’s back. She had never been more thankful for a low backed dress, reveling in the soft skin there. Fleur did something then, something with her tongue that caused Hermione to let out a small gasp. She dug her nails into Fleur’s back, dragging them across her snow-white skin. She was startled when the Veela moaned, her lips jumping back from Hermione’s.  
  
For a moment she thought she hurt Fleur, afraid she went too far. She wasn’t prepared for orange-gold eyes staring down at her. They were startling, bright as fire. Before she could ask, before she could apologize, Fleur returned to their kiss with a passion. It was faster, more desperate, and Hermione lost herself in the intensity. She found herself pinned between a tree and Fleur, the rough bark at her back only emphasizing the soft figure pressed against her front. Her hands returned to Fleur’s back and ran her nails across the smooth skin again. The Veela didn’t jump back this time, but moaned into Hermione’s mouth, tongues waging their own war for dominance.  
  
Suddenly Fleur’s lips were not there, leaving her gasping for breath. Her gasp turned into a moan when those lips reappeared on her throat, kissing and nipping along her jawline, moving just under her ear. Her whole body shuddered as she tilted her head, allowing Fleur more skin to tease. Her stomach twisted and turned and something a little lower began to throb in anticipation but Hermione didn’t care at that moment. Whatever this was, whatever was leading her and Fleur down this path - this was what she wanted. She wanted her days with Fleur, talking, teasing, arguing, learning more and more about the Veela, and she wanted her nights wrapped up in Fleur’s touch. As intense feelings of attraction, arousal, and happiness flooded Hermione’s senses, and she wondered how she ever lived without Fleur Delacour. Fleur’s teeth nipped gently at her neck one last time before returning to her welcoming mouth, accepting the intruding tongue eagerly.  
  
“‘Ow dare you!” A shriek exploded across the gardens, snapping Hermione out of her blissful stupor. It woke Fleur as well, her eyes reverting back to crystal blue. They jumped apart only to have their dresses tangle. They fell out of the rose bushes with a shriek, landing on the stone path. “I ‘ave never been more insulted in my life! ‘Alf-giant? Moi?” Hermione’s eyes flew up, recognizing Madame Maxime’s foreign drawl. To her shock, all she saw was Harry staring down at the heap of silver and periwinkle that made up Fleur and Hermione, and Ron, his eyes fixed over a different hedge. “I ‘ave - I ‘ave big bones!” She heard, rather than saw, Madame Maxime stomp off. Harry was still staring wide-eyed at them.  
  
“‘Re you alright, ‘Ermione?” Fleur whispered, helping her to her feet. She froze for a moment, eyes on Harry, but made a decision then and there. She gave him a small smile before grabbing Fleur’s hand, dashing off down the path and around the corner. She knew a thousand questions would meet her in the morning, but that was tomorrow. For tonight, Hermione had enough on her hands and she didn’t want to worry about what that meant come dawn. It was her night to be young and free, and nothing felt half as good as kissing Fleur Delacour.  
  
She led them towards the greenhouses, hoping they could find safety from Snape’s crusade against rambunctious teenagers. She almost giggled, thinking that, for once, she was that rambunctious teenager. Both witches caught their breath as they walked into greenhouse five.  
  
“Your eyes,” Hermione began, “Your eyes were orange.” Fleur froze at the words, eyes widening. They were their usual crystal blue, though she couldn’t help but remember the vivid fire that danced there, oranges and yellows and reds vying for dominance. “Is that a Veela trait?”  
  
“Zey,” Fleur hesitated, fingers darting to her own face as if to examine them for herself. “Zey changed?”  
  
“Yes, they were,” she hesitated, but she had already come so far. “They were beautiful.” The words fell lamely from her mouth but she was satisfied when Fleur appeared to disagree, a blush rising in her pale cheeks.  
  
“Zey…Zey ‘ave never changed before.”  
  
“Oh,” Hermione said, eyebrows furrowing. “So, it’s not something to do with being Veela?”  
  
“No, it is,” Fleur said. She still looked shocked by the information, “But it is not common in blood so diluted.”  
  
“Diluted?” Hermione asked, but before Fleur continued the fourth-year withdrew her wand and transfigured a shelf into a soft couch. “Would you care to sit? A lot has happened and I think — I think I’d like to talk.”  
  
“Only talk?” Fleur smirked, raising a suggestive eyebrow.  
  
“Don’t you start,” Hermione responded, raising a threatening finger. It didn’t seem to impress Fleur but the Veela took a seat all the same. She draped an arm along the back of the sofa, crossing her legs elegantly. How could someone look so comfortable, yet so regal? It was almost unfair as Hermione fumbled with her dress, falling back onto the cushions with no sign of grace whatsoever. With a huff and a chuckle from Fleur, she repositioned herself to face the Veela, though remained out of reach. She wasn’t sure she could trust herself at the moment, skin still tingling from their last encounter. Fleur didn’t share her concern. She reached for Hermione, grabbing both legs and sliding the young witch closer. Fleur rested Hermione’s legs across her lap, keeping a hold with one arm, the other propped up against the couch.  
  
“Cozy,” Hermione huffed, blowing a curly strand of hair from her face, the sleekyeazy potion already wearing off. Fleur just gave her a cat-like smile, eyes darting about her face.  
  
“I must say,” she began, thumb brushing Hermione’s captured leg, “I do like your ‘air as it was.”  
  
“As it was?” Hermione laughed, “You mean a bird’s nest.”  
  
“No, no, no!” Fleur smiled, “It was thick and gorgeous. So much you can do with such ‘air.”  
  
“Maybe you’ll have to show me.” She didn’t know where this bravery was coming from, but she couldn’t say she regretted it. Not when Fleur was looking at her like…like she was the only woman in the world. “So— So, your eyes.”  
  
“Zere are much more fun zings to discuss,” Fleur said, flashing that little smirk. “Why such interest?”  
  
“Well, I—” Hermione paused, alarm rising as Fleur’s hand snaked under the fabric of her dress. She braced herself, expected something shocking, but the other witch merely held her legs as she did before, at the crux of her legs, just behind the knees. Her touch didn’t push, didn’t stray, it just sat there, thumb stroking skin. Fleur watched her, eyes daring her to fluster, to falter. Instead Hermione swallowed her concerns, enjoyed the feel of the those soft hands.  
  
“As I mentioned before, I have been reading on Veela. I haven’t come across anything like this, though — nothing about changing eye colors. I couldn’t even find a definition for ‘Born’ Veela.”  
  
Fleur pursed her lips and tilted her head, making Hermione wonder if there was anything this woman couldn’t do attractively. When Hermione was lost in thought most people just told her she looked angry or upset. Fleur looked ready for a photo shoot. “Born Veela are like me,” she answered, much to Hermione’s surprise. “I am Born Veela. Every Veela now is Born. I am diluted in blood, because my grandmozzer mated wiz a wizard and so did my mozzer. I can not become ze Veela, ze— how you say?”  
  
“I saw the Veela mascots for Bulgaria transform. They were like Harpies.”  
  
“Oui, zis. We ‘are not ‘Arpies, zough it is close. I can not become zis, because I am one-fourz Veela.” Fleur unwound her arm from the back of the sofa, bringing her hand to the necklace around Hermione’s neck, taking the feather between finger and thumb. “Zis, ‘owever, is my feazer.”  
  
“You—” Hermione stuttered, her hand joining Fleur’s, feeling the feather tickle her fingers. “Yours?”  
  
“Oui,” Fleur chuckled, capturing Hermione’s hand in her own. “If I grow angry, ze will appear, mostly on ze back of my neck. Zis was one of my first feazers. I was a child and grew very upset wiz my muzzer. She saved it for me and made zis necklace.”  
  
“I’m so sorry, I never meant—” Hermione tried to remove the necklace, but Fleur tightened her hold on her hand.  
  
“No, no, zere is nozing to be sorry for. I put it zere myself, I want you to ‘ave it. It is,” Fleur paused, biting her lip as her eyes stared at the necklace around Hermione’s neck. “It is nice to see you wear it.” If Hermione’s face wasn’t flushed before, it certainly was after Fleur’s gaze lingered about her chest before returning to her eyes.  
  
“All this time and I could have been holding your hand,” Hermione mused, rubbing Fleur’s hand with her thumb.  
  
“It is not my fault you ‘re oblivious,” Fleur teased, grinning as Hermione let out a frustrated groan.  
  
“Oblivious because you are so utterly ambiguous!” Hermione argued, “Really, Fleur, why didn’t you just ask me to the ball if you wanted it so much?”  
  
“I am Veela!” Fleur laughed, “I am chased. I do not usually ‘ave to do ze chasing.”  
  
“Well, you may just have to up your game,” Hermione quipped. Fleur’s eyes narrowed.  
  
“Oh, yes?” She questioned, that thin, blonde eyebrow raising in challenge. “But I ‘ave you right ‘ere, where I want you.” Hermione felt victorious, feeling Fleur’s hand tighten on her thigh, insinuating the Veela wasn’t quite as confident as she let on.  
  
“You seem…troubled, Fleur,” Hermione said, trying to hide her rising grin. “Haven’t ruffled your feathers, have I?” As soon as the joke left her lips she wished it back in her mouth, but Fleur just laughed.  
  
“You zink zis is funny, yes?”  
  
“Well,” Hermione began, recovering her gumption. “You’re the little birdy, you tell me.”  
  
“Birdy?!” Fleur exclaimed, reaching for her. With a scream, Hermione tried to wrestle back, tried to smack the Veela’s hands away, but squealed as long fingers tickled her sides.  
“Stop, stop, stop!” She tried to sit up but just ended up in Fleur’s lap, where the other witch had every angle of opportunity. The assault continued until Hermione found herself face to face with Fleur and, in a last-ditch effort, pressed her lips to the other girl’s. The distraction seemed to work as the hands stilled at her sides, instead tracing thin lines up her ribs. A shudder echoed under her skin as she pushed Fleur into the couch, the blond grinning up at her. Hermione’s mind went blissfully silent once more as she descended on the Veela, her hand weaving into silver-blond strands. They fought for dominance, tongues dancing, taking turns leading and being led, until Fleur’s lips moved towards her neck again, hands brushing the periwinkle silk covering Hermione’s chest—  
  
“While I am ecstatic you have found a private place to settle your differences,” Hermione screamed in fright at the dreamy voice and turned to find Professor Dumbledore standing at the entrance of Greenhouse five. She gasped, horrified, but Dumbledore didn’t seem to mind or care about the scene before him. He just gave them an understanding smile, that knowing twinkle glittering in his eye. “I must advise both of you proceed to your respective dwellings. It is, after all, near midnight. I would hate to see such a lovely evening ruined by detentions.” Hermione tried to move away, tried to put distance between her and Fleur, but the Veela buried her face in her chest, letting out a highly frustrated groan. While Hermione’s blush consumed her face, Dumbledore merely laughed good-heartedly. “Yes, I understand. Young love is always a tumultuously fabulous time; however, I know your mother would not care to hear her daughter has been participating in promiscuous pastimes, Mademoiselle Delacour. Though I happen to recall a time where she was so inclined, as well.”  
  
“Oui, Mousier Dumbledore,” Fleur groaned into Hermione’s cleavage. This only seemed to amuse the Headmaster further.  
  
“I’ll leave you to your good nights. Miss Granger, I have personally found the passage behind the tapestry of the Wild Hunt to be a very direct route to the seventh floor, and mostly unknown to certain prying eyes.”  
  
“Yes, Professor,” Hermione responded, trying to manage the surprisingly high pitch of her voice. “Thank you.”  
  
“Of course,” He gave them a nod before departing. Fleur finally lifted her face from Hermione’s chest and promptly earned a slap on the shoulder from the younger witch.  
  
“Why did you hide in my cleavage!” She hissed.  
  
“Ma coeur,” Fleur groaned, “Dumbledore was good friends wiz my grandmozzer when she was alive.” The blonde sighed, but ran hands up Hermione’s sides and clutched tightly onto her, preventing the Gryffindor from standing. “‘E is well-acquainted wiz my muzzer. I am certain she will ‘ave a few choice words for me.”  
  
“Well, that’s not very fair,” Hermione responded. “It wasn’t like you forced me to…you know.”  
  
“Oui, but it is not proper. Zere is etiquette for such zings.”  
  
“Well, you know what the solution is.” Fleur’s crystal blue gaze rose to meet hers, raising a thin, blond eyebrow. Hermione felt a smirk tug at her lips. “You’ll have to make an honest woman of me, Delacour,” she said, parting with the French witch. “I believe there’s a Hogsmeade’s visit before the second task. Ask me and maybe I’ll say yes.”  
  
“Maybe?” Fleur said, almost insulted, but Hermione knew better now. Knew it wasn’t offense, but growing interest in her voice. This dynamic of theirs, this back and forth, this newly issued challenge of courtship, this was quickly becoming Fleur’s favorite game and Hermione was determined to play it with her. She leaned over, placing a chaste kiss on Fleur’s lips. Before she could be drawn into more, Hermione backed away.  
  
“Maybe,” Hermione answered, striding out of the greenhouse before calling back, “Sweet dreams.”  
  
Upon returning to her dorm room, Hermione didn’t say anything to Parvati or Lavender, still awake gossiping. All she did was take a chocolate frog from Ron’s Christmas gift and handed it to Lavender. Before they could ask or question, Hermione returned to her four-poster, drawing the curtains closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, there's the end of the update. I hope you all enjoyed the chapters. I'll be honest, I am so freaking glad to be passed the Yule Ball. Now the story can really take off. : )
> 
> I'll get started on the next set of chapters! 
> 
> Any comments or critiques are welcome. 
> 
> As always, I hope you all have a fabulous day, 
> 
> Jekaterina


End file.
